Cinderella Never Cries
by QueenFroggy
Summary: What began as an advantageous business move lands rich and powerful Darien Shields in a place he never thought to find himself, his own fairytale, but this one has a twist. Cinderella isn't without a past of her own. Will this fantasy find its Ever After?
1. Prologue

Alright, I FINALLY got another chapter up!  It took me a month…or 4 weeks I believe…one more week than promised.  However, I decided that I love this too much to give up!  I'm going to keep on writing no matter what!  I hope that's good news to you guys.  For those of you who have read this before, I've changed it significantly in my opinion, but if you really can't stand to read it again, no need! (but seeing how my writing is so wonderful…^_^).  And…for those of you who haven't read this yet…ENJOY!! ^_^

Disclaimer- I do not own Sailor Moon nor do I know who does, but whoever they are: good job.

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"Beauty, above all things, is the most misunderstood concept on the face of this planet."  The voice of Darien Shields rang smoothly and deliberately through his palace of a home.  He moved slowly, each step with meaning, tapping the railing of the wrought iron staircase each time the bars reached upwards to form a knot.  It was built in an exceptional style and was extremely sought after by art connoisseurs and indulgent rich men.  Not many people were even aware of its existence—the precise reason why he had had to have it.  Darien Shields expected and accepted only the best.

He studied his smooth, white hands nonchalantly, turning it this way and that, making it appear as if there was nothing more fascinating that his very own extremities.  They weren't perfect or unblemished.  Even in his positions, he had experienced difficult physical labor and bodily injuries of the like.  Anyone that knew him would say he was a rare breed of man.  He held closet passion; passion unrevealed, for he approached everything with a heavy nonchalance.  There wasn't a single thing out of his reach.  At twenty-one, he was quickly climbing the A-list of Corporate America as one of the largest names in manufacturing.  He was a powerful man, and he looked it.  He walked with the overwhelming confidence of an Alpha male wolf, aloof yet cautious at the same time.  Every movement of a muscle was deliberate.

"Wouldn't you agree Andrew?"

His blond counterpart nodded silently.  His friend had a reputation as a notorious playboy.  He had sampled all the beauty this side of New York, and his appetite was insatiable.  "You know best," he said with a chuckle.

Darien stopped at the end of the corridor, pinching out the flame that cast dancing shadows across the wall.  There were no signs of flinching as the heat ravaged his skin.  He simply turned, tapping the frame that hung carefully above the candelabra.  It was ugly.  No other word could describe it; the colors blended and faded into an indiscernible mush, but it had been expensive.  It was quite possibly more valuable than the car he drove, and that was all that mattered.

"I've collected Monet's, and I've collected Picassos.  They're both masterpieces."

"Well, it depends on which…"

"I think they're all hideous," he interrupted, "Am I wrong?"

Andrew laughed, "Art is subjective."

"Art," Darien flicked a stray piece of wax onto the floor, "is beautiful."

"Not according to what you just said.  What's with you today Darien?"  Andrew watched his friend run a hand roughly through his hair, "You seem fazed by something."

"It's nothing." 

"It's something."  It was always something with him.  For a man who had everything, he was constantly unhappy and constantly moping.

"Don't worry about it.  I shouldn't have even brought it up."  He dismissed.

"Brought _what_ up Darien?  Half the time, I can't even tell what you're saying you're so vague.  Beauty?  Art?  Ugly art?  What's really up?"

Darien turned grimly to Andrew, "What is it usually?"

The blond groaned, "Women."  He was constantly surrounded by them.  They liked the dark and brooding-ness of him.  He thought they used him, but he never realized that the only one who actually did was the woman he loved—Rei. 

"Close, but no cigar," he chuckled dryly, "You know who I'm talking about."

            "Yeah.  I do."  His voice was bitter.  For the past two years, he had seen his friend battered and beaten by this woman, and still, he hung on.  They played with each other like dogs in heat.  That was their relationship—not much more, but she was his only hope…  "Again?"

"This time for good Andrew.  She actually took her stuff."

"But what about the contract?  You have to be married."

Darien heaved a sigh and leaned heavily on the railing, bringing his fist into contact with the adjoining wall.  It was always about the contract—like a curse he couldn't escape.  Why else had he held on to Rei for so long?  She wasn't much in the way of a lover, more like a fuck-buddy, and a man couldn't live off of sex alone.  They both knew that. "To hell with the contract!" he shouted, "I still have two years don't I?  And god damn it, I don't want to marry her Andrew, and she sure as hell doesn't want to marry me.  We can hardly stand each other for a minute much less for the rest of our lives!"

"Except when you're in bed," he muttered.  Andrew looked at him darkly, "We've talked about this.  Just wait two years, and you could get a divorce!  You know we need this money.  Married on your twenty-fourth birthday, it's not a lot to ask Darien!  Especially for you, you have half of Manhattan at your feet.  All you have to do is walk outside, and you've got twenty marriage proposals right there."

"Rei won't wait two more years.  Every decent man in America will have had a taste of her by then.  You know that better than I do," he shot him a warning glance.  It wasn't even two months ago that he had found the two of them together—his best friend with his fiancé.  He didn't condone it, but it hadn't boiled his blood as he had expected it to.  He knew she slept around; he did the same.  What kind of marriage would come of the two of them?

            He lowered his voice dangerously, "I won't wait either, not just for a divorce, and I don't want some woman who throws herself at my feet.  I want…"

"Love?  Darien, we don't have time for love, and I didn't see you flaunting your ideals at the bar the other night.  I saw the woman you went home with, and it wasn't Rei."  Andrew laughed, sarcasm dripping from his voice, "Was she your Mary Sunshine, Darien?  Are any of them?  You're not going to find what you're looking for."

"I have two more years," he grumbled.

He sighed, noting the hopeful tone in his tone.  Darien was blind to the world.  He still saw only what he wanted to see, and he was still holding onto the notion that dreams could come true—the impossible.  Dreams always came with a price.  Why let his friend go on thinking that they didn't?  "Just find someone—anyone, as long as she's legit."

Darien glared darkly at his friend, brushing off the sleeve of his jacket.  

"Damn insensitive bastard," he thought.  He never understood; he didn't even try.  Andrew didn't understand the concept of love.  It was beyond his world of dollar signs and numbers.

"Just have your people call my people," He growled angrily, and he stalked quickly away.  


	2. Ch 1 Darien and Andrew

Darien stared down at the blond lying beside him, her golden hair sprawled over his broad chest like a trophy.  She shifted sleepily on the bed, letting a contented sigh escape her pretty lips.  She was just like the others, another trophy girl, thinking she was special when in truth, he wasn't sure of how she even got there much less her name.  He couldn't remember exactly what had happened the night before.  He was sure he hadn't touched a drop of wine, but it had become all so routine to him, and they were always so eager.  Even without sex, his name was enough.

"They're all the same," he thought, "waiting for me to ask them out to dinner and pick up the check with my big fat wallet."  It was long since he had given up on love.  He decided Andrew had been right.  In the long run, love never won—not anymore.  Now, love was expressed in monetary terms and the varying sizes of bank accounts.

"Mornin' sunshine," she purred.  Her make-up had faded after the long night, and along with it—her beauty.  A greasy sheen of sweat shone off her skin, and her mascara had smudged, leaving a heavy ring around her eyes.  He hated seeing them in the morning, unpolished and raw.  Tramps were always so deceptive—warm and inviting in the evenings but never any other time.  He pushed her to the side in distaste and reached for his cotton-terry robe, ignoring her comment.  There was a sour taste in the back of his throat; he assumed it was her.

"Your clothes are somewhere in the apartment.  Try to get all of it before you leave.  I wouldn't expect to be invited back."

"In and out, just enough to get the job done," he thought grimly.  That's what Andrew always said. "Screw business, screw corporate success," that's what he wanted to respond with, but he didn't.  Andrew was right; he was beginning to be right about a lot of things lately.

He didn't care about the job; he didn't care about the money, and it had become repetitious, cycling through woman after woman.  He wasn't even looking for love anymore.  A young, willing body in his bed each night would suffice, but the company would get its money.  Women could be easily fooled, especially when love was involved and especially when banks were involved.

He sighed.  There was a time when they actually had a purpose—doing this for the good of other people, but all that had gone down the drain long ago.  One day during the holiday season, they had made a routine stop at the Abused Wives Center, just one in the network of charities their school hosted.  He remembered, up until then, he hadn't even been aware of such suffering, but it was there, plain as day—right in front of his face.  The children came in, just as dejected as their mothers, several of whom fought voraciously to overcome inhibiting drug addictions.  They had nothing—no holidays, no Christmas, and the meager meal provided for them had been a rare feast, something he would have considered petty food.  The next year, he went back alone with Andrew bearing gifts.  They had worked together, piddling away their summer to make toys for the children.  It was all in fun at first, but with the gratitude they received—it had become addicting.  They brought toys as often as they could, working whenever time could be spared and always taking care to make sure no child was left gift-less, but after a year or so, they began to watch their money supply dwindle.  Toy making had become too expensive even for their spoiled wallets.  So they acquired a sponsor—Mr. Billings.  He loved their plans and ideas and supported them…almost one hundred percent, but being a greedy man by nature, he convinced them to turn their holiday cheer into a franchise.  For the first two years, he controlled them like puppets, and he took the liberty to name the company Toy Billings, but they grew at an amazing rate.  It wasn't long before Andrew wanted to become independent of Billings, and so, as legal owners of the company, they told the old man that his sponsorship was no longer needed, and he was fired.  They were renamed Shieki's Toys—a combination of their names: Shields and King, and today, it had become the country's top manufacturer in youth marketing.

"Success is bittersweet," he thought.  Satisfaction only sates a man for so long.  He had been happy when they had been a small business, steadily growing.  Small businesses didn't lead him down the booze ridden paths of clubs and sluts.  Small businesses didn't lead him down the path to _her_.  Without looking back, he shouted for her to leave, letting a menacing note creep back into his voice.

"I expect you gone when I re-enter this room.  If you can't remove yourself, I will be happy to provide you assistance."

The blond stared after him shocked.  No one rejected her; it just wasn't done, not even by Mr. Darien Shields.

"He's not so hot," she grumbled. But she wasn't fazed for long.  She knew men and how their heads worked—both of them. 

"What's the matter baby?  Didn't sleep well last night?" she cooed, "I know I didn't."  A seductive purr escaped her throat as she slinked over the bed sheets, never attempting even once to cover her nude form, but it was all in vain.

He was already gone.

****************

Darien grimaced as hot water pummeled his skin.  He scrubbed mercilessly, trying to cleanse himself of whatever he had done the night before.  Women were like a vice to him.  Drugs and alcohol he seldom touched, but god—women.  They were always there, always around every corner, and always just waiting, begging to be touched.  He knew they were using him, hoping to get past his bed and straight to his paycheck.  He did the same.  They were a night's worth of fun, nothing more, nothing less.  He was just returning the favor.  

None of them ever managed to capture his interest, none after Rei.  Although, he never loved her, and she sure as hell never loved him.  She was a drug, a euphoria he couldn't get enough of—fatal attraction if you will.  With Rei, it was purely physical, raw and animalistic, and he never seemed to mind anymore.  He grinned, thinking of the delicious encounters they still shared from time to time.  No one else was like her; she was a spitfire, always unpredictable, while being with other women was somewhat akin to a good, clean business transaction—just do your job and no one will know you were even there.  Lately, he had twiddled with the idea of asking her to marry him and then send her along her way with a portion of the inheritance.  It was the only way she would ever agree, but he knew another woman would do it for free.  So many of them had foolish hopes of changing him, they were all looking for their own storybook romances in a world that ate people alive.  If given the opportunity, his blond friend outside would be the same, falling in love and then pitifully attempting to convince him of his desire for her.

Some women were just stupid.

They never seemed to want to leave; he knew.  She was still lying in his bed, refusing to be removed, and so he had called the Hotel service ten minutes ago to make sure she made a smooth exit.  Her type was always the most difficult to deal with.  She would put up a fuss, refuse to dress herself, even try to seduce him back into bed—all things he didn't tolerate.  He made it a point to tell them to be merciless.

Darien shut off the water and stepped out into the steamy bathroom, wrapping a towel around his waist.  The air was cloudy with mist, obscuring his sight.  He liked his showers hot, no matter what time of year.  They were reassuring, as if the heat would scour away his filthiness, but it never did.  He couldn't escape his actions, and he knew it.  After time, he had come to rely on artificial fixes.  Anything to make him feel a little better—life wasn't in his interest anymore.  He wiped off the mirror and frowned at his reflection.  He always looked too soft—his eyes too kind.  Rei commented on that several times.  He was a paradox, and his eyes gave him away, revealing the existence of the little nudging itch at the back of his mind, how at the end of the night, he still wanted softness.  He still wanted someone in his arms to love and hold, but he had come to learn just how improbable it was.  Women were beginning to bore him; they had become tedious even.  He had had such high hopes before—notions of princesses and fairy-tales in his head.  He tried to love each and every one that came along, straining with all his will to see something more than lust in their eyes, but it never worked.  All they ever saw was the penthouse suit and a handsome face.  No one ever saw past it, and he was convinced no one ever would.  He was a man cursed a thousand times over, even by beauty.  His dark hair was matted against his head, and his skin shone with residual water from the shower, producing a devastating effect, and he knew it.  His lean torso was riddled with wonderfully toned muscles, his neck strong and shoulders broad.  His features were fine and delicate but with a man's proportion.  He had been described as stately, royal, and there was a certain distinguished air about him that was decidedly difficult to decipher—making him a mystery.  His was the face that launched a thousand broken hearts.

He smiled radiantly at his reflection, just for effect and brought a hand up to muss up his hair just as the door swung open, causing him to jump.  The woman would have been gone long ago.  It could only have been Andrew.  The man had little respect for privacy.

"Don't you ever knock?" he growled?

"You'd been in there forever.  I knew you were either having a private moment or checking yourself out."

"Also private," Darien interrupted grinning.

"Yeah, yeah.  Well, it'd been so long, I figured you'd be done and dressed already.  Pardon me, I suppose I was wrong.  But, first things first, who was that blond woman I saw being escorted out the front door?  I know she was yours Darien.  The hotel doesn't do morning-after clean up for anyone else."

"She's just some girl I met last night."

"A special girl?" he asked hopefully.

"If there was anything special about her, she'd still be here," Darien muttered.  He should have expected that.  For two years, Andrew persisted to find him a wife, and for two years, he endured it gritting his teeth.  He moved to leave the bathroom, but Andrew stopped him.

"You can't keep doing this Darien.  This isn't just about the contract; it's not right.  You used to have some respect for women.  At least tell me you know her name."

Darien pushed past him, "must have slipped my mind."

"What the hell has gotten into you?  You go through women like some people go through packs of cigarettes.  Was she the third this week? Or are there more I don't know of?"

"Fourth, but the week's almost over," he said dryly.

Andrew lowered his voice dangerously, "You have a month Darien, a month until your twenty-fourth birthday.  That means a month to find a woman to marry or you'll lose your inheritance, and we'll lose the chance for Shieki's Toys to go international."

"Everything's about the contract with you," Darien snapped, "You've had a one-track mind these past years.  It's all about the company, and it's ruining you."  It was ruining the both of them.  He knew of the prime example—of his friend's one wasted chance at happiness, thrown away for the sake of business.

"It's the reason you lost Mina."  Darien watched Andrew's face pale to an ashen white.  Even months later, the mere mention of her name had a profound effect.  She had changed everything about him—turned his world upside down, or rather, right side up.  All the while, his was crumbling.  They had changed roles, Andrew gained a sense of romanticism, and Darien lost his.

"You don't know anything about that," he shot back.  Both his voice and position were defensive, as if he were savagely protecting whatever image of love he had remaining, but the sounds of pain rang clearly in his pitch, leaving Darien with the feel of regret.

"She told me herself Andrew."

"Leave Mina out of this.  She has nothing to do with it."

"She has everything to do with it.  You.  Of all people, you should understand.  You've had your own foibles with love and all because of the business, but you still expect me to join the next woman I see in holy matrimony.  Why can't we just chuck this all away and go back to the way we were before?"

Andrews mouth set into a hard, fine line; his eyes flashed angrily, "All these years and you still don't understand how much we have at stake.  There are people depending on us Darien…"

He laughed coldly, "You don't still fancy yourself as Santa Claus do you?  Because we lost that aspect of the business the minute we met Billings.  So stop trying to play hero.  It's all about the money, and you know it.  I'm doing this for you; I do this all for you."

"Well, I don't know if I should feel flattered or cheated.  You haven't done shit Darien.  In all our time together, you haven't pulled your weight in anything, so I ask you for one thing, and you haven't been able to deliver."

"You've asked me to forsake my life to some woman I don't know or love!  How can I comply?"

"I've asked you to find a woman to love and marry.  It's hardly torture," he sighed, "You don't pull through on your end of the deal Darien, and we lose everything."

He felt the heat rise in his chest, and his anger rose exponentially.  The blues of his eyes raised to meet Andrew's in a defiant glare.

 "So let us."

***************

A dull thud rang through the hall as Andrew kicked the door to the elevator savagely just as it opened, angry at both Darien—and himself.  They were both strong men, and both accustomed to getting as they wished.  Darien especially.  They had grown up as brothers, and he had been the older one—Darien the younger.  Although it was no excuse, it accounted for a lot of his behavior.  He was idealistic, romantic, and quixotic, babied into thinking he could have anything his heart desired.  Andrew, on the other hand, had been the more practical.  The lines of fantasy and reality had been drawn out for him at an early age, and they remained clear—until he met Mina.  It was then that he began to see what Darien saw in his illusions.  Things were loosened and freed, and the world, which had had him in a chokehold for so much of his life, was weakened.  He was mighty, invincible, and he controlled his own destiny—but only with Mina.  Now, he had been so long without her that he dared not declare any form of belief in love.  There was no way of being sure anymore.  Darien was undergoing the same things, he knew, but with more intensity.  He was bitter and stubborn, having finally to release the beliefs he had held all his life.

"Prince Charming deconstructed," he thought, almost with a slight satisfaction.  He had always preferred the pragmatic life, but Darien was an object of envy, living so carefree—until recently.  However, it was improbable that anyone on the outside looking in would think otherwise.  Nothing had changed about him.  In fact, his quick-paced life style had intensified nearly ten-fold, going out almost every night.  Most people would testify that he just liked to have fun, but Andrew knew the difference between a man who loved life and a man who tried to drown himself in it.  He studied the smiling bellhop as he entered the elevator.  He was just a boy, young with medium build.  His face was fair, spotted with freckles, and his smile was lopsided.  He was homely—average looking, but on him, it was endearing.

"To the lobby," he instructed, looking the boy over yet again.  There was nothing special about him, nothing stood out, and he provoked no particular feelings.  He was the type that no one ever bothered to turn around for, and it was wonderfully refreshing.  Andrew often wondered what it would be like to be average and to have gone through life devoid of any distinguishing achievements—middle class family with a middle class income, plain face, and mediocre intelligence.  He thought it would have been nice and especially soothing to get away from it all, the money, the publicity, and most of all—the company.  Running a large business was complicated, more complicated than he could have ever imagined.  It was one thing to study it—another to make it come alive, and the latter was clearly the more difficult.  He found himself overwhelmed by the stress of it all more and more often, and as for Darien—he had managed to keep himself as detached from the industry as possible.  He did the minimum work and pulled his weight when necessary, but never more.  That had been tolerable before when he had Mina.  It was amusing to him to imagine himself ruling a vast empire with her by his side as his queen.  And she would have made a beautiful queen, he never envisioned her as the princess type.  In times of crisis, she was his backbone; she knew little of business and most of her advice was inane, but she had always been big on support, and from her, that was all he needed to keep him going.  However, now, he could feel himself cracking.  He saw it even, every time he looked in the mirror, in his tired eyes and the perpetual stooping of the corners of his mouth.  He was beginning to hate the company, even the idea of it.  He hated what it had become, and most of all—what had become of him.  There was still the knowledge, though, the whispering in the back of his mind that told him he couldn't ever escape.  Both him and Darien had boxed themselves in and were much too proud to throw away all the years they had dedicated to it and everything they had sacrificed—like Mina.  

What could have been a bigger loss?  After the ordeal, he remembered feeling almost nothing, nothing he had expected.  No pain, no anger or hurt, and that was what had devastated him.  She was his life, the reason he trudged on through each day, the reason he even chose to get out of bed in the mornings—with the exception of the times she was in it.  It was as if in the time they had been together—their beings had merged, and she had become part of him, at least, the part that wasn't already consumed by the industry.  Apart, he had been forced to discover himself again, and he finally began to mourn her absence.  He never felt as if he had regained everything that was him before—that it was still with her, and it had all been lost for the sake of the company.  Darien was right.

When it all came to end, he had wanted to throw it all away.  He had found several potential buyers, each offering profitable sums, and he would have given it to any of them for nothing if she would have just stayed with him.  But after she discovered his plans, instead of meeting them with gratitude as he had expected, she accused him of putting on a show of chivalry.  And she was right.  He had known somewhere in a corner of his mind that she would have refused.  She said it meant too much to him; and without that knowledge—he wouldn't have even tried, throwing it into the ever growing stack of lost cause.  He had discarded love—his one chance at happiness, and all for the sake of business.  Even Mina hadn't been enough to save him.

He shut his eyes, trying to drown his thoughts in the lobby noise that rushed through the opening doors.  It had almost become a physical pain to him-thinking of what he had let go and knowing that he wouldn't have been behind any other decision one hundred percent.  

Then, without even a glance at the young bellhop he asked, "Do you believe in love?  Or maybe the possibility of love?  I've..." He paused, "I've begun to think that it doesn't exist."

"Or maybe just not for people like me," he added as an afterthought.  His eyes flashed, frantically thinking that if perhaps one person still held on to romantic ideals of fantasy-he could too.  And so he waited, desperately hoping for a positive answer, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boy's face was a blank slate, the only expression that shone in his eyes was a hint of bewilderment.  If he had heard at all, he chose not to respond.

"I suppose," he said, to the boy's relief, "It's not an easy question to answer, but thank-you."  A bitterness crept into his voice as he choked up his last words, and he pulled the tip from his wallet.

"Think of this as my tribute to love," he pronounced, "Perhaps it will be better to you than it has been for me."  And it was only then, after having the bill pressed into the palm of his hand, that any emotion at all came to the palate of the young boy, shocked by the generous donation of one thousand dollars.


	3. Ch 2 Serena

Serena James pulled her sweatshirt tighter around her small body, shivering as a chilled wind ravaged the sad tree leaves, planted in the New York sidewalk.  They whipped up around her ankles, traveling down the pavement and reminding her of snapping dogs—merciless.  

"Autumn in New York," she grumbled, "Is not all it's cracked up to be."  She hated it here.  She hated how cold it was and how the people always seemed to stare, as if she stood before them naked.  They knew she wasn't from around.  It was so obvious; she might as well have been wearing a sign.  Everything she had tried to get away from back home was magnified ten-fold here.  For such a large state, Texas had been surprisingly restricting.  She hadn't been able to live, caught in a choke-hold between school and home, and in high school, she had been teased for being a "Mary."  It was intriguing to her to wonder what it would be like if she had done something wrong, crossed the line just once, but there were always consequences, and those outweighed interest.

She looked cautiously from side to side before crossing the street, and her feet shuffled swiftly to avoid the dangers of the oncoming car but most of all, the man who had been eyeing her hungrily, taking down her image like a slab of meat.  She hated the prying gazes of men.  They always looked as if they were able to see more than they should have been.  When she used to hate the shelter of home, now, she longed for it, but it was so far away.

She pushed open the door to a little corner bistro, and the pungent smell of coffee flew over her like a wave, just as it did every morning.  She hated the stuff, only served it for a living, and it was the only thing keeping her off the street.

The entrance bell jingled—the cheap, sour din that greeted her entirely too early in the day.  It had become a wake-up call to an unfortunate world every time someone came through the door.  It took everything in her power to keep from ripping it off the wall.

"Good morning, welcome to Friday Mornings.  How may I…" the statuesque blond at the counter stopped short of a sentence as she noticed Serena in the doorway, "Oh, it's just you.  Running a bit late are we?"

She gave a sarcastic snort, "Thanks, I was getting dangerously close to feeling a little appreciated."

"Now, we can't have that, can we?" she quipped.

Serena pointed a finger towards her own hair, "Wig or dyed?"  Lita was constantly making changes to her hair or to herself in general.  She said she prided herself in being "New York," always on the go.  Just last week, it was a pale, but still shocking blue.  Oddly, she always managed to pull it off.  She had a kind of down-to-earth beauty that nothing seemed to be able to shake, but she was hardly the girl-next-door stereotype.  It wasn't difficult to take notice in her foot-loose attitude.

Lita pulled upwards at her hair, "This baby isn't coming off.  You know, they _do_ say blondes have more fun.  After all," she grinned, ducking below to grab a pastry from the display, "There was something about the old color.  It seemed unnatural."

Serena laughed, "Maybe because it was blue?"

She cocked her head to the side, contemplating the comment, "hmm, maybe.  But, I must say, I _do_ feel much better.  I really think you're on to something here.  You're the blondest of the blonds.  I would dye my hair like yours, but they don't sell _that_ color in a bottle.  Was your mother a blond like you too?"

She shrugged vaguely, not wanting to delve too deeply into the subject of her mother.  Her own hair was a silver blond, not white—silver, so silver it almost glowed sometimes, giving her an almost ethereal appearance although, more otherworldly than heavenly.  As for her mother—she just didn't know.  She  turned her head, searching around the low-lit house for something to speak about in place of mommy dearest.

 "Slow business today?"

Lita scowled, "What?  Haven't you noticed?  Slow business _everyday_ lately.  People just aren't coming anymore, and I don't know what to do Serena."

"It'll pick up soon.  I know it will," she reassured, "Once winter hits, the place will be packed."  Serena frowned, watching her friend bury her head in her hands in frustration.  She wished she felt as confident as she sounded, but the coffee-house had been consistently empty for days on end.  

She had met Lita at the airport nearly a year ago.  Grinning, she recalled her blatantly obvious greeting: "You're alone," and that, she had been.  She had traveled clear across the country just to be frightened to death by the busy New York airport, and seeing her retreat into a corner to escape the rushing crowd, Lita approached her, at the time, wearing a black leather ensemble.  After nearly thirty minutes of wary questioning, Serena finally decided to take her offer of help, for lack of any better option.  However, now, nearly a year later, Lita was her best and only friend, as well as the only thing keeping her off the streets.  She didn't quite understand how she could afford to be so generous with her money, especially because of the coffee house's inherent lack of success.  She suspected Lita had money coming in from another source, but she didn't pry.  They all had their own secrets.

Lost in thought and slightly dazed, Serena snapped to attention, surprised by Lita's animated beating on the counter.

"There's a man headed this way—potential customer!" she gasped.  A nervous edge crept into her voice, "Can't you do something about your hair Serena?  You know you're supposed to have it pulled back.  It looks unprofessional in your face."

She gave a small grunt as she pulled herself up from the couch, giving her friend a half-agitated glance.  She hated having her hair up and away from her face.  It made her look thin and haggard and even younger than she already appeared.  She had never been a big child, and now, she wasn't a large woman.  She stood at exactly five feet.  Lita called it delicate; she called it one foot in the grave.  In her opinion, looking unprofessional was the lesser of two evils.

"Well is he coming in or not?" she mumbled, her voice stifled as she struggled with the immense length of her hair.

"Patience is a virtue Serena.  He's making a phone call.  By the looks of him, it's probably important.  He's probably selling off millions of dollars worth in jewels!" she breathed, her eyes sparkling.

"Chill out Lita.  You make him sound like some kind of mob boss."

Lita snorted, ignoring her comment, "Open the door a little.  Maybe the smell will entice him."

"Or knock him out," she retorted.  She brought up her gaze just as a tall man in a business suit walked in.  He had a sort of casual confidence as if the world were at his fingertips; she could see it in the way he walked.

"Oh, he's handsome," she thought, doing a double take.  They were far from where he came from.  Friday Mornings wasn't in the shadiest parts of New York, but it was damn close.  Everything about this man was immaculate.  Not a single strand of his blond hair was out of place, his suit was crisp and perfect, and he was more than just handsome.  He retained the quality of boyish charm, but the look of success tarnished its innocence.  He reeked of Wall Street.

Serena watched Lita's eyes widen in awe from the look of him, her mouth following close behind.  She wasn't going to get any help from her.  A bright smile mechanically painted itself upon her face.

"Good morning sir, welcome to Friday Morning, what can I get for you today?"

He smiled, his hair shining in the sunlight, "A cup of coffee and something else," he paused, his eyes perusing the display, "I'm in a slight hurry, and this all looks wonderful…Why don't you surprise me?"

Serena surprised herself, flashing him a genuine grin.  He was warm and charming with plenty of charisma, not what she would have expected from him, but she wasn't quite as taken as Lita.  Her newly blond friend sat behind the counter, sneaking shy glances in his direction as he bit into the fruit-custard tart she had speechlessly handed him.  

"Delicious!" she heard him exclaim, and she chuckled, imagining the blush creep into Lita's face.  So this was what it took to finally get her tongue-tied.

She routinely snapped a lid onto the steaming, plastic cup.  "One coffee to go," she laughed, "This is my specialty.  I don't bake or cook.  You know, coffee's the only thing I'm good for on this Earth.  Do you take it with cream  or sugar Mr…"

"Call me Andrew, and black is fine with me," he chuckled, watching Serena scrunch her face, "Not a big fan?"

She shook her head, "It's bad stuff—coffee in general.  I haven't touched it in years."

Andrew laughed again.  She was cute, "And yet, here you are."

She grinned, "Here I am."

"Well," he said, receiving the cup, "I best get going.  It was nice meeting you ladies.  You have a charming little place here.  Good day!"  He flashed another toothy grin, especially at Lita who still hadn't managed to utter a word and began backing out of the store.

Serena's eyes widened, predicting the looming catastrophe, "Watch out for the…" she stopped suddenly, just short of a complete thought as a wave a hot coffee washed over her, the pungent smell overwhelming her nostrils.

"Door," Lita finished.  She gave a small whimper, "It opens in."  She watched with open horror as Andrew brushed specks of coffee from his face and suit, and then directed her attention to Serena who had gotten the worst of it all.

"I'm terribly sorry," she heard him say.

Serena shook her head, "No, it's alright.  Let me get you another cup of coffee.  It's the least I can do."  She moved towards the coffee machine, wrinkling her nose at the sticky smell of herself.

"I'm fine," he cut in abruptly, stopping her with a touch to her arm, "I don't need another cup of coffee.  If anything.  _I_ should be getting _you_ another cup."  He chuckled at her complacency, "I wish there was something I could do to make it up to you."

"It's fine really.  I don't need anything; it wasn't your fault at all."

Andrew smiled, ignoring her rebuttal, "I'm holding a big gala at the Plaza Hotel this Saturday.  That's—a good five days away I'm afraid, but I'd love to have you as a guest."

He looked her over, his eyes studying her closely, but it didn't take much to come to the conclusion that she wasn't swimming in wealth.  From the looks of it, not many people in this part of town were.  She wore sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and even doused in coffee, he could tell they weren't new.  Chances were, she didn't have the correct attire for his gala or the money to pay for it.

"She won't fit in either," he thought, but a gift of any kind would come off looking like a pity party.  She didn't look like the type to either welcome or appreciate his sympathy.

"Call my number," he said, handing her a business card with careful deliberation.  No personal numbers—no room for misunderstanding, "I'll make the necessary arrangements for you., so there's no need for you to worry about anything.  Now, I should probably take you somewhere to get cleaned up…"

"No!"  Serena cried hastily.  The prospect of going anywhere with this man seemed nerve-wracking.  Not because she deemed him untrustworthy, but rather because of their gaping differences.  It would have been like a serf hitching a ride on a king's horse in feudal Europe.  She laughed nervously, "I would feel terrible about leaving Lita here alone.  Business gets rough sometimes you know.  And anyways, we've probably made you horribly late.  Man like you.  Chances are you have an important meeting that will play a big role in predicting the future of America to get to.  I couldn't stand it if I were in any way responsible when we all plummet into a terrible economic depression."

He laughed, "You're sure?"

"Positive.  In any case, I have an extra change of clothes in the back.  Girl scouts honor."

            He paused before setting out for the exit, "I didn't quite catch your name…"

"Serena James!" Lita shouted from behind the counter, "And I'm Lita Hunt!"  she added hastily.  She looked as if she had completed a lifetime's worth of good deeds, practically glowing.

"Alright then," he said, pulling open the door, "I'll be expecting your call Serena James.  Good-bye.  It was nice meeting both of you."

Serena craned her neck, watching him disappear round the corner, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw her friend doing the same but with a decidedly hungry quality to her face.

"Well," she laughed, "That doesn't happen everyday around here does it?  At least _something _ exciting happens every once in a while.  I can't remember the last time I saw a man so nicely dressed.  I think it was in a magazine, and I haven't been able to afford those in a while," she paused, watching Lita slowly come back down to Earth, "I don't think you've blinked in the last minute."  Her eyes danced in laughter, "and it might do you some good to close your mouth just a little.  I take it you liked him?"

"Liked him!" she gasped, "Be still my beating heart!  I've never met anyone so amazing—the way he dressed, the way he smiled, and ohh," she paused, mentally playing a picture of him; Serena chuckled.  In all honesty, she wouldn't have been surprised if her friend was currently undressing him in her head.  "the way he moved.  Can't you just _see _ what might have been under that suit?"

"Not really," she grinned, enjoying the alarm play out on Lita's face.

"The body of Adonis!" she breathed, letting her head roll back in her reverie, "Can you imagine being with a guy like that?  God, think of the prestige, the wealth!"  She stopped, a naughty gleam sparkling in her eye, "Think of the sex."

Serena shrugged, laughing, "He's not really my type."

Lita crawled over the counter in shock, a half-maniacal look to her as she endeavored to shake some sense into her friend, "He's everything everybody looks for in a man!  You're crazy!  And you were crazy not to go with him when he offered.  Didn't want to leave me here, my ass!  And I know for a fact, Serena Kimberly James, that you do _not_ have a stash of extra clothes in the back.  So you gave up a chance to ride in a limousine with the man of my dreams to reek of coffee all day long?" 

"You don't even know if he _has_ a limousine."

"Oh," she waved her hand, dismissing the comment, "I bet he does, and what do you bet he comes to pick you up for his gala in one!"  Her eyes widened, "Have you ever ridden in a limo Serena?  God, it must be amazing.  It'll be like Cinderella; you'll show up in a long, flowing gown with _him_ on your arm.  Promise me you'll bring a video camera so I can live the night binging on ice-cream and popcorn on my living room floor.  I'm jealous as hell."  She laughed, twirling on her toes with clumsy grace until she fell comically onto the sofa.

"Yeah," Serena muttered, "except there won't be any long, flowing gown.  Ugly stepsister's don't get to be the belle of the ball, you know.  That man was oozing wealth.  Just touching him would probably make me feel a world richer.  I probably couldn't even afford a button on that suit he was wearing."

Lita pulled herself up from her awkward seat in disbelief, " 'Don't worry about a thing' remember?  He said he would make the necessary arrangements.  The man's not an idiot.  Anyone can see that someone from this part of town wouldn't fit in with _his_ people.  He's probably got plenty of money to throw around—enough to buy you hundreds of dresses."

"I don't think so, Lita."

Her eyes expanded even further, "Oh no?" she retorted, her face now nearly touching the portable TV. screen that sat on the counter.  The old thing had a habit of switching on and off.  It had long since stopped paying heed to any sort of command given to it. 

"Smart thing," Serena thought.  Obedience was for wimps and small-town girls like her, and it didn't look like she was going anywhere fast.

"Give me that card he gave you," she shouted, squinting to make out the picture obscured in the television static, "I think…"  She trailed off, "this is him—on the news."

Serena turned around, mildly surprised, "The news?  Is he anyone important?"

"Important!" she hooted, "God, do you know who he _is_?  He's the owner of Shieki's Toys.  Forget about the gala, girl, and get straight to the wedding.  You could be rich!"

"Don't be ridiculous," she laughed incredulously, "You can't see a thing through all that fuzz, for all you know, that could be a middle-aged, balding old man."

"I've been watching this TV. for eight and a half years.  Don't tell me what I do and don't see; it's him, I know it.  Take a look at that card.  It'll say Shieki's Toys."

Serena shook her head, letting the card dangle by her side.  She didn't have to read it to know Lita was right.  His face had seemed familiar, but it was something she couldn't quite put her finger on.  In her slumps, she often found it was easier to follow the lives of other people rather than her own.  Last year, she followed supermarket tabloids with religious devotion, reading headline after headline, waiting in line at the local grocer.  He had been married and divorced from actress Mina Hart, and his business had become an almost overnight success.  Such an economic miracle, that her Intro to Business teacher insisted on squeezing them into the curriculum.  They started out small but grew at a tremendous rate, expanding exponentially once they shed their confining advisor, Damen Billings.

"Don't get any wild ideas into your head Lita.  Even if I did go to the gala, he's not interested in me."

"No, _you_ are not interested in _him_.  You need someone to come wake you up from that wacky dream world you live in.  You're waiting for your Prince Charming, but they don't get much more charming than that nowadays.  Get your head out of the clouds and into a bucket of water.  Maybe then your eyes will open up a little."

Serena sighed, vainly trying to run a hand through her sticky hair.  Lita was right.  She knew; her feet had long since floated off the ground.  Hopeless dreams—all of them, but despite everything, she had expressed an almost inherent disability to let them go.  She still thought…maybe…

"I'll find him someday."

Lita clucked her tongue in a motherly fashion, placing a gentle hand on her friend's shoulder.  She had been there once—hopeful and dreaming, but she had had to grow up fast and grow up tough.  She learned one of the first rules of survival the hard way: take what you can get, and take it fast.  Waiting around for something better got you nothing, but she shook her head softly.  Realization came with a price—and it wasn't worth the loss of innocence.  

"Yes," she whispered, "Maybe you will."


	4. Ch 3 Breaking down and dresses

A creaking sounded through the deathly stillness as Darien swiveled to and fro in the dark, office chair, a chair that had come to represent everything Andrew hated about the business.  His office was dark and life-less, created to be rid of any distractions apart from success, distractions like sunlight.

"I like the plant," Darien chuckled, "There's finally something in here that we know for sure is alive.  Not like you and me; we're half dead already."

Andrew frowned, mentally equating his friend with a child, quickly amused by the movements of a seat.  He had called him in here for a purpose, and now, looking at him, he nearly forgot what it was.  Or maybe, he didn't want to remember.  He had had to reevaluate himself in the past few days.  Whose good was he doing all this for?  The last thing Darien needed was to be tied down.  He wasn't in a relationship because he wasn't fit for a relationship.  In some ways, he was still eighteen…

"What would you say…" he started, speaking slowly and with caution, "What would you say if I told you I had a plan?"

"I would say for what, and keep me out of it."

Andrew shook his head, his words tumbling out of his mouth in spite of himself, "Darien, you need to find a wife."

"Tell me something I haven't heard," he mumbled, "What is it this time Andrew?  Is she blond?  Or a brunette?  Better yet, how about a red head.  I could use some variety."

"All of them."  

Darien raised an eyebrow at his unexpected answer, and despite his practiced indifference, his curiosity perked its ears, "In case you haven't gotten the memo Einstein, polygamy is illegal.  I wouldn't object to starting a harem of my own, but…"

"Shut-up," he interrupted, "Hear me out.  This plan is fool-proof.  It can't fail.  Not even with you in the picture."

"Thanks."

Andrew continued, ignoring his comment, "You're going to hate me, but I guarantee you'll find somebody.  It's like putting a buffet in front of a starving man.  There's no way you'll pass up any of these women.  They're beautiful, intelligent, cultured."

Darien chuckled, slowly catching on, "You're going to parade hoards of women in front of me, and hope that I choose one in a couple of hours."  He pushed himself up out of the chair and crossed the desk to his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder in mock sympathy.  "Let me tell you what you're doing Andrew; you're putting entirely too much faith into something that doesn't exist."

"And what is that?" he retorted.

"Love at first sight."

"You underestimate me Darien," he said affectionately, "I'm counting on _lust_ at first sight, not love.  I know how your head works."

Darien smiled, enjoying the friendly verbal contestation, "Let's go back to the metaphor for a second…" he paused, "You put a buffet in front of a starving man and expect him to take just one?"

"You're hardly lacking in women," Andrew pointed out, "You can't equate yourself to a starving man."

"But you forget," a playful gleam shone in his eye, "I'm Italian."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Increased libido," he winked.

Andrew watched him as a frown threatened to tug at the corners of mouth.  He was quickly sobering to the unlikelihood that Darien would choose a woman to join in holy matrimony.  In some ways, it felt like he had played himself right into a trap—unwittingly given him what he wanted.  He had pictured a grand procession of women and one extraordinary one that would catch his eye; they would meet and fall maddeningly in love.  The end.  But looking at Darien, he could tell the night would probably go quite differently.  He mentally saw him pulling along a young girl to go tastelessly fuck in the backseat of his car, leaving the remainder of the guests wondering where he had gone off to, and by first light the next day, she would be abandoned, shooed out of his apartment like the morning garbage.

"Darien," he said, "promise me you'll give these women a chance.  I didn't set this up to find you another one night stand."  He stopped, watching his friend situate himself back down to the leather seating of the chair, scowling at the change in atmosphere.  "I want you to be happy…"

"Bull shit!" he exploded, "You want the money.  I never know whether or not I can trust you anymore Andrew.  It seems like every time we argue, every time we even get together and _talk_, it all turns to the money!"

Andrew sighed, letting his arms fall loosely at his sides in exhaustion.  He had been through this millions of times, and it seemed to get worse and worse with each confrontation.  But whether out of perseverance or stupidity, he pushed on, throwing woman after woman, plan after plan at him, only to have them all fail.  After years of this, it had become almost a mechanical act; he did things, easily able to predict the ill-fated outcome, but he did them anyways.  And lately, it had begun to rap on his conscience, what was his _real_ intention?  He didn't even know anymore.

"Do you really think that's all I'm about?  The money?  We've been best friends since we were in diapers.  Is it a sin to want to see you happy and in love?" he paused, studying the accusatory glint in the eye of his friend, "But you don't trust me…How long has it been Darien?  How long has it been since you've trusted _anybody_?  You've let this destroy you."

"I'm not the only one," he shot back, "Can you honestly tell me that you planned your party with purely good intentions?  That you didn't let my damn inheritance creep into your thoughts, not once?  I doubt you could say you don't think of that money and how fucking close you are to losing it everyday.  I mention something remotely sexual, and you go crazy, afraid that I won't be taking this seriously."

"You won't"

"Damn right I won't!  It's ridiculous—like Cinder-fucking-ella all over again.  Is that how you thought this would work out?  Like Cinderella?  We don't live in a fairy-tale world Andrew, and Disney is one big scam.  Happily-ever-afters are for fools like you who can't get their heads out of the clouds."  Darien had, without even realizing, begun shouting with such vigor that the pen he held in his clenched hand had broken in half.  Nearly red in the face, he viciously kicked the chair out from beneath him in one swift movement, and started towards the door in a blind, heated stupor, bringing his fist into contact with the nearest wall.

Andrew watched him, trying desperately to retain his calm demeanor, his stiff countenance that had taken years to cultivate.  What he was seeing was the destruction of a man—of his friend.  The Greek hero was being brought down to earth, a final humbling that would devastate his spirit, and this money was proving to be his ruin.

"That's not what you used to think," he said softly, "If I remember correctly, it was quite the opposite.  You—the hopeless romantic.  Wasn't it you who insisted we ornate ourselves with soda can armor to go save our damsels in distress?"

Darien shook his head, giving a broken chuckle at the resurfaced memory.  Slowly, he brought the torn skin of his fist to his body, "And they slapped us in reward, for slaying their dragon boyfriends."  He turned towards his friend, collapsing against the wall with a defeated sigh, "I can't keep this up Andrew, and I don't know what to do.  I feel like the past few months have been years.  I'm running out of time, and I don't know what to do."  He shut his eyes, feeling the familiar tightening strain on his chest, and the heat rise up his neck, through his nose.  The moisture began to well at the corners of his eyes, slowly dripping down in great rivulets as he vainly willed them not to.  "It's overwhelming sometimes…when everything rests on you, when _so much_ depends on you."

Andrew shook his head sympathetically, "We can go on even without the money."

Darien gave a dry chuckle, "Then why place so much importance on it?"  He picked himself up from the ground, regaining his composure.  He looked just as he had ten minutes ago—calm with his signature cool confidence, like nothing had ever gone wrong and nothing ever would.  He ran a casual hand through his deep black hair, "No, I'll go to your party Andrew, and maybe give fairy tales another try."  He paused, studying his window reflection, "Still friends?"

Andrew nodded.  "Always," he replied.

"Then it'll be all right."

************************

An Autumn breeze rustled tree leaves in Central Park, whirling some about, bringing some of them down to the ground into a frenzy of color, starkly contrasting the pale, dead tone of the grass, and two blondes—a man and a woman, one considerably taller than the other walked side by side, in stride with each other.  An early glance told them to be lovers, but closer examination would reveal their bond to be of an understanding and compassion that only brothers and sisters can share, and this bond, struck up within literal minutes was that of rare and extraordinary consideration.

Andrew reached up, plucking a lone leaf, hued several different colors from a branch, "This is pretty."

Serena nodded, "mm hmm," her eyes sparkling, "This whole place is gorgeous.  You know, I've never been here before.  It makes me completely reevaluate my opinion of New York."

"Oh really?  And what's that?"

She made a face, "That it stinks."

He laughed, "Come back here in the spring time.  The blossoms are gorgeous, but I think New York is beautiful year round.  There's no place like it in the world."

She shook her head slightly, so that it seemed as if she wasn't sure whether or not she truly disagreed, "No, I'd give anything to be back home…" her voice trailed off, taking on a quiet, reminiscing quality, "There used to be a stream that ran behind my house and trees all around it.  In the spring time, there was nothing like it.  A wooded area lied across, and I would swing to the other side and pretend I could escape to another world.  During the first week of spring, the branches would be so filled with blossoms, it almost looked like a white winter, and when the wind blew…they'd all come down."  She smiled, remembering, her face taking on a happy calm that nearly glowed.

Andrew grinned looking down on her, "sounds nice."

"It was"

They walked along, speaking no further, and occasionally, like a giddy young girl, Serena would stop and stoop to pick out a leaf that would catch her eye, by the time they had made their rounds through the park, and their car was in distant view, she had had quite a collection.

"What are you planning to do with all those?" he laughed.

"Well…" she paused, considering, "I don't know.  Drop them, I guess."

"Drop them!  But we spent so long."

"The fun is in the collecting, not the leaves," she interrupted, "The stream was beautiful in Autumn too.  I used to pick up leaves and actually keep them, but leaves fade after a while.  The picking…that's where the goods are," she laughed, "I played little games around that stream a lot.  It gave me a good escape."

"If you don't mind," Andrew said, after a period of deep thought, he gingerly plucked a simple brown leaf from a branch, "That's the second time you've used the word escape.  What was it exactly you were trying to escape from?" 

Serena stopped, her face turning an ashen white, but almost as suddenly as it had, she smiled with a slightly forced vigor.  However, her laugh curved with such exuberance that Andrew grinned as well, dismissing it to the imagination.

"I was a creative child," she chuckled, "I had to escape from everything: fire breathing dragons, wicked stepmothers, and dastardly villains.  The only thing missing was a Prince Charming." 

"An idealist," he nodded.

"And proud of it."

Andrew laughed, "I know the feeling.  I spent half my childhood being dragged around on melodramatic missions to save all the _wrong_ damsels, I'm afraid."  He reached for the door handle, pulling open an entrance to the car.

Serena stepped in, the expression on her face amusedly surprised, "I wouldn't have expected you to be the hopeless romantic type."

"I'm not," he grinned, "Notice the word 'dragged.'  I was the unwilling knight in shining armor."

She gave a small chuckle once the car started up, "Who dragged you?"

"My partner, Darien," he said, pausing, "—my friend.  You'll be meeting him at my gala," he added as an afterthought.

Serena stopped, a look of slight alarm crossing her face, "About your gala…"

He smiled gently, perceiving her worries, "I'll take care of everything.  My driver will retrieve you at seven and bring you over."

"I feel like such a bother," she interjected quietly.  She looked down, feeling sheepish, knowing that she was here, out with him already—already a bother.  In the morning, he had taken the initiative to call her, thinking that perhaps, it would do her good to go out.  He knew just as well as she did that she would have done less than nothing with the number he had given her.

"Don't worry about anything.  I'm glad you decided to come.  It'll be nice to have you there.  We're friends already aren't we?"

She smiled at the cordiality and warmth that radiated from his voice.

"I feel like I've known you for years," He continued, "You have such a comfortable demeanor."

"Then," she grinned, "I'm sure you'll be good to tell me where we're headed."  Her eyes locked on the window, which had been recently obscured by dark, alley walls.  She had noticed they made several turns, all of which took them deeper and deeper into a maze of dark passages.

He chuckled, lowering his voice mysteriously, "My secret weapon." 

Serena giggled as he wiggled his brow up and down, "You look ridiculous."

He laughed along with her in high spirits while succinctly pointing out that they had arrived at the appointed destination.  

"It's my very own diamond in the rough," he said, guiding her by hand onto the street, "Every one of her dresses are designed and crafted exclusively.  She has years, some decades worth of work in that shop."

Serena nodded, struggling to find words to say, but it seemed the store said it all.  In front of her stood a page from a storybook, a small Victorian painted a blinding chartreuse with almost random accents of color.  "It's almost a shock to the senses."

"Yes, but in the most endearing way.  Don't you think?"

She voiced her agreement, thanking him as he held open the door.  "These dresses," she breathed, fighting to take it all in, "There must be dozens of these."

"Ninety-nine.  She makes sure to always keep ninety-nine on display."

Serena turned, curious, "Why?"

He shrugged, and she focused her attention back to the walls, the expression of her face giddy, like an exuberant child.  "Amazing," she whispered.  Her fingers advanced cautiously, as if a touch from her would soil the dress, and at the slightest touch, the delicate hem swayed gently, almost as it would in the wind.  

She craned her neck to face him, delighted at what she had seen, "It's glowing!" she exclaimed, "I've never seen anything like it."

"Why, thank-you."

Serena froze, struck by the low musicality, the sheer femininity of the voice that told her it wasn't Andrew's.  The sound was graceful, and the tone—magical.  It seemed to paint pictures in her mind, pictures of impossible elegance, impossible poise, pictures of the carrier, which matched perfectly the woman that stood beside her.  She seemed to move with no effort, making her actions flow with an almost unnatural fluidity as her voice had.  Her cheekbones were high and beautiful, and her almond eyes slanted into a flawless mystique.  As she held out her hand, evidence of age that had been so well hidden in her face demonstrated itself with perfect grace.

"This," Andrew announced, placing his hand in hers, "Is the well acclaimed Diana, otherwise known as my secret weapon."   

She laughed, bell like laughter, "He gives entirely too much flattery for an old woman like me."  She leaned into Serena as if to tell a secret, "I'm really much older than I look.  Don't tell Andrew, or he might take his business elsewhere."  She laughed again, but this time, explosively.  Her smile was wonderfully infectious.

"I never bring the special ones anywhere but here Diana," he grinned.

"He's trying to bribe me, is what he's doing.  He knows perfectly well there's only two reasons why he comes back."

Andrew chuckled, friendly fire dancing in his eyes, "And what might those be?"

She cocked her brow, "Mina," and suddenly, almost as soon as the name had escaped the barrier of her lips, her smile took on another quality.  It became the beam of sympathy that a mother gives to an injured child.  Serena's eyes traveled to Andrew, fascinated as if a scene were taking place.  His face did not betray him, but his eyes held a look that seemed despondent.  Lost.  

His voice lowered, the levity gone, "Was she here?"

"Earlier this afternoon."

"To buy a dress?"

She shook her head, "No, just to chat," she paused, "We spoke of you."

            His eyebrows rose, "And?"

She smiled warmly, "I can't divulge everything."

Serena watched as his face fell, and he nodded dumbly, "Of course."  He swallowed heavily and then grinned forcedly—a quickened heartache recovery, "And the second reason?"

Diana laughed, batting her eyelashes furiously, "My beauty."

He raised his hands smiling and admitting defeat, "Another given, but I'm afraid…" he stopped, looking at Serena, "that we've neglected my guest."

"Oh!" she cried, her eyes widening, "I believe we have."  She took her hand gently into her delicate fingers, "You must be Serena."  She chuckled again, noting the startled expression on her face, and perceiving her question, she said, "Andrew told me your name."

"You were right," she smiled, turning to him, "She is special."

Serena laughed a modest laugh, looking down as she felt a flush creep into her face, "Your store is amazing.  I've never seen such beautiful dresses in my life."

She looked her over, her eyes seeming to flash   with a light that seared her inside and out.  Serena noticed their color—a deep, pale brown, so light they were almost yellow—almost gold, and they shone with an ethereal glow.  It looked through her, straight through to her core and seemed to know everything.  They were spellbinding.

She lifted her arm in a grand gesture, sweeping over the dresses that hung on the wall, "These, my dear," she said, beaming, "are not yours."

Serena stared, confusion clear in the lines of her face.  "Yes," she stammered, "Of course not."  She gave a nervous chuckle, "Silly me."

Diana smiled, the corners of her thin mouth curving mysteriously.  Looking over the petite blond, she crooked a finger, "Come with me."  

Serena looked back at Andrew, slightly reluctant, and as she opened her mouth to respond, Diana interjected, "I have something for you."

Andrew gestured encouragingly.  "Trust her," he mouthed.  His face reflected an expression so enthused that with no further dispute, she followed her to a small, back room.  She sniffed the air, trying to make out the scent that seemed faintly familiar, and her nose twitched vainly, discernment right at its tip.  Past a certain point, the room was unlit, and while she moved along, slightly groping at the walls to keep her balance and direction, she noticed that the empty space before her seemed thick and heavy as if it were intercepted by some mist.  The smell grew as she moved forward and it caught in her mouth and throat so that she could almost taste it.  The atmosphere was highly mystical, reminding her of an old fortuneteller's booth she had visited once with chokingly thick incense smoke.  She strained to hear Diana's footsteps as she walked further along, but she could barely see or hear anything.  She only relied on her touch as the wall led her unobstructed to seemingly nowhere.

Steadily becoming more and more distressed, she called out, "Diana?" and almost as if by instinct, she halted immediately although the wall continued in its smooth expanse.

"Serena, my dear," came her voice.  It sauntered out into the air almost as smooth and quick as the heavy smell had left.  Serena noticed a balanced growing of light around them.  The mystique was so completely gone that she wondered to herself if she had not imagined it all, "I believe we have reached the end of our walk.  I apologize.  It's quite a long way, especially in such darkness; I know."

She chuckled, once again nervously, "It's all right, really.  I'm fine."

"Well then," she said, gingerly pulling a smooth bundle from a slight pedestal with her gracefully curved wrist, "This," she paused, looking up dramatically, "is for you."  In her hand was a simple, white dress, flowing and beautiful but far from spectacular.  Serena fought not to allow her face to fall too severely.  It lacked the magnificent element of the others, the fairy-tale quality, not glowing or seeming special in any way.

"Take it," she whispered, her eyes wide, her smile broad and peculiar.  She extended her arms gently as if they held a living form, "I saw this for you.  I made this—for you."

Still beaming, she pulled a bag from a wall mount and delicately folded the dress inside.  Never looking up from her task, she said, "You don't like it."  There was no evil or malice, hurt or anger in her voice.  It was stated as simply and nonchalantly as one might ask for a dish or the morning paper.

"N—no," Serena stammered, her voice suddenly hoarse.  She was struck by the oddness of the scene, the strangeness with which she had responded, and she had little if any clue as to how to react.  She swallowed, preparing the flagrant lie, "I love it Diana—my favorite."

Diana smiled, pressing the bag into the palm of her hand.  "Trust me," she whispered, "Trust _it_.  It will bring you out by the light of the moon."  Serena stared, unable to pull her eyes away from the golden gaze that locked on her.  Slowly, she felt her fingers loosen their grip on her hand and consequently, the bag, and her own hand closed tightly around it.  She left, fully disappearing into the darkness of the room, and all of it—the smell, the pitch black, the air of mystery—all of it had come again.

********************

I've had a terrible case of writer's block.  This past week has been me forcing out this chapter and editing and editing and editing and editing…and after the end result, I'm almost afraid I haven't edited enough.

What do you guys think of Diana?  I think I let her character slip a bit…too friendly hmm?  I also tried to get further into the minds of Darien and Andrew because I noticed you don't get much of that in fanfics.  It's dominantly Serena isn't it?  And plus…I think they're interesting. :o) 

I'll try to get the next chapter up as soon as possible!  Expect two weeks or so.


	5. Ch 4 Fluttering to get ready

Serena sat, staring intently out the car window.  In her hand she clutched the bag that Diana had given her, stroking the beading from top to bottom.  It and its contents were without contest, the finest things she had had in her possession, and the way she had come about them seemed surreal in an almost distressing way.  Her fingers traveled up to her lips, touching them as if a trace of that haunting room had lingered.  She swallowed deeply and with deliberation, the smell and taste of it still hung thickly in her throat.  In the window, she saw Andrew, his reflection, and the concern in his eyes.  Neither of them had spoken much since leaving the store.  The peculiarity of the scene had struck her so deeply that she could think of little more.  She had made it out of the dark room with slight difficulty, the same way she had come in—alone.

_It will bring you out by the light of the moon._

After Diana had left, her voice had seemed to linger and hang in the air, almost like a mental echo.  She had been told to trust it—trust the dress as if it were something alive and breathing, something you could tangibly put trust _into,_ but it was a dress—cloth and stitches, simple and white, nothing more.  What had she meant?  Light of the moon?

When asked, Andrew replied that she was a peculiar woman.  She worked in her own ways, and sarcastically, Serena retorted that she sounded like God.  

"But God's a bit less mysterious," she thought.  In her mind, she reran her encounter with Diana, and slowly, she painted her fingernails a red lacquer, her eye-lids a shock of blue, replaced the lanky black dress she wore with old gypsy garb, and wrapped her hair in a vibrant cloth.  Mentally, she saw a mystical, a fortune telling witch.

She flashed a quasi-smile in Andrew's direction that seemed to qualm the escalating tension, at least, on his part.

"How do you like your dress?" he asked.

"It's great," she nodded, pausing slightly, "When should I return it to you?  Or should I bring it back to Diana?"

He gave a slight chuckle, shaking his head, "Keep it.  I assure you; I won't be wearing it.  Besides, I couldn't have you return it to Diana.  You'd get lost a million times trying to find her place."

She laughed a little, glad for his comedic relief, but interjected quickly, "I couldn't possibly keep it.  It must have cost…"

"Cost isn't an issue," he smiled kindly, "I'm sure you have enough problems on your hands to keep you from worrying about my financial ruin, which won't come about with one little dress.  Keep the dress.  It's the least I can do."  The grin on his face turned sheepish, "I must have ruined your clothes with all that coffee."

She nodded dumbly, not wanting to stray into the topic of money, or in her case, the lack of it.  Suddenly, she felt a stinging pang of guilt.  Why had she even agreed to come today?  To go to his gala?  She knew.  In the corner of her mind, it had been a chance to escape her life of poverty.  She could rub shoulders with the richest men and women in Manhattan, and in the process, deny herself of who she really was, or rather _where_ she really was—one step away from welfare.  Her eyes drifted to the nicely pressed man beside her: his silk shirt, styled pants, and shoes—perfectly shined shoes, and felt painfully conscientious of her own old and worn attire.  She crossed her legs and pulled her bag over her lap in a deliberate attempt to cover herself from him.  She looked down at her fingers, half-expecting to find them smudged with dirt, and she hid her nails in the folds of her hands when they did turn out soiled.  She felt like a peasant next to her lord, and it didn't seem quite fitting that he ride around with her—as friends even.  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, acutely aware of the soft smell of leather in the vehicle.

"Thank you for all of this," she mumbled, almost to herself as if it had suddenly struck her that she hadn't expressed enough gratitude for his charity.  She bent her head low above her lap, suddenly feeling the weight of peasantry.

"There's no need to thank me," Andrew said.  He forced a smile, noting the lost relief in atmosphere, "I'm glad to.  Really."

"No, but I…" Serena stopped herself just as abruptly as she started, not  having anticipated her own explosion of words, and her volume had been higher than expected.  Then, almost as swiftly as she had spoken, her face broke out flushed.  She clenched her hands, feeling the perspiration growing there.  With each second, she felt her anxiety swelling.  This was unfamiliar environment that she was finding herself in, like a river fish taken out to sea, about to steal away for land, and her mind raced, the period of silence she prolonged not sitting well with either passenger of the car.  She shook her head, as if the action could break the silence, but despite it all, both she and Andrew stood quiet, not knowing what to do or say.  He knew her doubts about money; he had guessed them from the very start, but to call her on them would prove embarrassing to both.

"I don't think…" she stammered, "I don't think I can take this."  Serena gestured towards the bag, demonstrating it slightly higher than necessary.  "I mean, at least let me pay you back.  I'd be sure to get the money to you in about a month.  Or just—" she pushed it towards him placing it beside his lap, "just take it back.  I'm so sorry.  I just can't go to your gala.  You don't understand, it's not just about the money.  I feel like…I feel like I'm—"

"Betraying yourself," he finished, "I know—it's about pride."

She looked at him, astonished, "No—I mean, yes.  It is…but how would you know?  I mean, look at you.  You're successful, good-looking, insanely wealthy.  You've been fed your whole life with a silver platter…" Her voice trailed off, Serena turned away from him, realizing what she said.  "I'm sorry Andrew.  I didn't mean that."

He shook his head, "It's all right—you're not entirely wrong.  I was born into a well-off family, raised by a well-off family, and still—live in a well-off family.  Silver platters weren't altogether rare when I was growing up, but I do know what it's like.  I've had my own experiences."  He smiled softly, signaling the driver to stop.  She looked at him questioningly.

"Darien and I had a rebellious year.  It was our freshman year of college, and we both decided that we had grown sick of silver platters," he chuckled.  "I guess we wanted plastic for a change.  We did everything we could to defy our parents—and their wallets, until finally, the both of us were cut off.  Darien first; I quickly followed.  So we spent a year impoverished, both of us capable men, but neither of us with any sense as to how to live on our own.  I'll never forget how it was to live day by day, not knowing how much we could afford to eat tomorrow, and—" he laughed, "learning the proper way to fold my underwear."

Serena cocked her head, laughing, "Always an important skill."

"Isn't it though?" he smiled, "That's how I met Mina.  I had just learned to do my laundry.  Although, a great deal of my clothes and Darien's too, had been ruined in the process.  So there I was in the Laundromat, throwing the whites—some of them pink by this time—into this dingy little bucket.  She came over and decided I needed help.  Didn't even ask—just started folding my pink underwear." 

Serena expressed her amusement unabashedly, "Love at first sight?" she asked.

"Nearly.  She was gorgeous.  I wanted to die away from embarrassment, but at that time, she had loads of money.  I told her my story after some prodding.  We had great chemistry, you know, but that's really the only thing that kept us apart.  I thought she was trying to give me charity, and I was too proud to take it."

She nodded, "So then what?"

"I got over myself, and we fell in love." His smile broadened, "It's tough, but don't let it ruin your opportunities.  Let yourself live.  I get the feeling you don't allow yourself that privilege too often."

Serena shook her head, almost astounded, "It's amazing how sure you are of yourself."

"Years of practice pay off." He quipped.

She chuckled, "Who would have guessed?  I've hardly known you a day, and you've got me figured out even better than I do myself."

He smiled eagerly, pressing the strings of the bag back into the palm of her hand, "So you'll go?"

Her eyes sought out his for some sort of last minute validation—could she do this?  The question then, stood as to just what she was going to do, and why her gut seemed to harbor a feeling of dread she couldn't shake.

"You'll be there?" she asked.

He nodded, and she sighed.  Whether it was a sigh of relief or defeat, she couldn't determine, but her head followed his, giving a slight nod of reassurance as if her words weren't enough.

"I'll go," she said, and in the speaking of her declaration, she felt an old knot at the pit of her stomach unfold and untangle—a puzzle finally broken through.

********************

Serena sat impatiently in a solitary chair—an old Lazy Boy that looked like it had been allowed to relax too much.  It slumped outward in every which way, and at the same time, seemed to cave inwards at the center.  She liked it because it was comfortable, but oftentimes, she muttered that it better have been.  It was the lone piece of furniture in her tiny living room.

"Lita!" she shouted.  She had left her waiting for nearly twenty minutes, the hair on her head an indiscernible mass.  Serena had called her for help, not knowing the woman would go insane.  They had been at it for hours, trying to mold the jungle on her head into something remotely distinguished, and Lita had brushed and pinned and curled and pulled and jabbed like a mad woman, insisting that the final product would be well worth the pain.

"Hold on!" Lita called back.  She comically stumbled into the room, while supplies seemed to pour out of every side of her, especially her mouth.  "How do you live like this?" she mumbled.  Her words formed a muffled nonsense.  "This place is a mess, and to top it off, you have so much unused closet space!"

Serena laughed at her friend's sincerity, as if unused closet space was a genuine sin, "How much longer Lita?  I've been sitting here for hours."

Lita ran a hand through her own hair, now shockingly red, and gave an exaggerated snort, "It's only been thirty minutes, and judging from the looks of your head, we might be here for a while."

The blond pouted, pulling the corners of her lips to impossible depths.  "It's taking forever," she whined.

"Yeah, yeah.  Well, this fairy-godmother doesn't have a fucking magic wand so Cinderella's just going to have to wait."  She pulled a jeweled come from her mouth and tucked a few strands of hair into place, "It'd be nice if your hair wasn't so difficult to work with.  It's so fine that it feels like silk, but no one ever said silk was easy to mold."  She jabbed a bobby pin into her head.

Serena gave a cry of pain and leapt from the chair, but two strong hands forced her back down.

"Hold still!"

She winced, trying to pull away from Lita's harsh grasp, "I would if you would stop—ow!—pulling!."

The redhead sighed, as she tucked another tuft of hair beneath a pin, "Beauty knows no pain Serena."

"Well then I must not be a beauty.  I know it personally."

"Serena my dear," she said, "I don't know what I'm going to do with you, but I must say—" she took a step back to admire her work, "I am impressive—a master."  Her hands flew about the blond head in a frenzy, tucking stray strands back into place, fluffing things that needed to be fluffed.  

"Stick a fork in yourself Serena," she laughed, "You're done."

"Good!" Serena leapt from the chair, which let out an odd wheezing.  

Lita shook her head, tut-tutting at the aged leather seat, "Poor thing."

"Poor thing is right.  I pity it."

"But not as much as I do," Lita said sympathetically, "You're getting back on it."  She grinned deviously as she pushed the blond playfully into the seat.

"Hey, hey!" Serena protested, "Watch the hair."  She paused, searching Lita's face for any hint of what more needed to be done.

"What now?" she asked, "Make-up needs retouching?"

She shook her head.

"Then stop with the poker face!" she cried, "You're frighteningly good at it."

Lita broke into her characteristic grin, "There was a box left for you at the store this morning, and as if that wasn't enough—just wait till you see what's inside!"

Serena raised an eyebrow as she pranced out of the room, her long legs flailing about in an almost awkward manner, "Since when do you open my packages for me?"

"Since you started cavorting with rich, good-looking men and hogging all the fun, my dear," Lita called back.

Serena laughed as she brought it back, "Well, go ahead and open it then!"

Lita brushed away the hair that had fallen into her eyes, positioning her fingers at the edge of the lid.  The corner of her mouth crooked up in a mischievous half-grin, "You ready?"  She watched her friend sigh frustratingly before opening the box top, and her eyes widened.  Inside were shoes—the most astonishing shoes either of them had seen.  They were dainty, small and white, but most of all—they seemed to shine with an almost ethereal glow.  Anything the dress was lacking, the shoes made up for.

Serena raised a hand, almost afraid to meet them.  "Beautiful," she breathed.  Her eyes stole a furtive glance at Lita, "Are these from…?"

"You guessed it.  She gestured towards the corner of the box with her head, "Check out the card he left."

She lifted it, reading the message.  The shoes came as a gift from Diana, free of charge, and by their side lay a gorgeous earring set and necklace that shone with such vigor, they almost struck her fancy as being alive.

"Oh my goodness," she breathed.  Her hand fluttered to her chest, "Now I really do feel like Cinderella."

"Well your Fairy Godmother says the clock is ticking.  Hurry up and get those on." Lita giggled excitedly, "ooh Serena, you lucky duck.  What I would give to be in your position."  She swooned with exaggerated dramatic flair, "To spend the night with that Mr. Prince Charming of yours."

Serena hurriedly slipped on the shoes and put in the earrings.  "Andrew and I are friends," she protested, "Can you help with the necklace?"  She draped it over her neck and felt the clasp snap shut in the back.

"The final touch," she whispered, almost to herself.  Doubt had somehow grown wings in the pit of her stomach.  It fluttered about, creating wave upon wave of uncertainty.  She turned around to face her friend, "I don't know if I can do this," but Lita stood still, her pretty mouth hanging open, and she was much too astonished to speak.  She hardly recognized her friend.  She was gorgeous, like something straight out of a picture as if she had transformed in the few seconds she was turned away.  How had she changed so much in such short time?

"Serena," she blinked, only half-believing what stood before her eyes, "If you can't do this, I doubt anyone could.  It's—you look amazing.  How you look Serena…It's—it's beyond words."

She smiled reluctantly, "You flatter me Lita."

"No," the redhead pulled her towards the window's reflection, "Take a look for yourself."

Serena gasped, looking into her image.  She was—beautiful.  She didn't look like herself.  She laughed incredulously; Serena James was pain at best—never beautiful.  Even with the jewelry, the dress, the shoes…she hadn't expected such a dramatic change.  She felt doubt receding.

"Is that me?" she asked, suddenly breathless.  Her fingertips sought her likeness in the window.

"It _is_ you," Lita replied, she smiled softly at the gentle knock on the door.  "Are you ready?"

Serena shook her head, "I don't know."

            She patted her friend affectionately on the shoulder.  She didn't know what had happened, but whatever it was—it was magic.  She took in a shuddering breath.  It wasn't often that she got a chance to believe.

            "Serena, something wonderful is going to happen tonight.  I can feel it."

"I need you to be there with me Lita," she chuckled nervously, "I can't do this alone."

Lita laughed, "Well, it's a little late for that." She smiled, "You'll be fine, now go."

Serena breathed deeply before gathering up her skirt, and self-encouragingly, she nodded.  "Just one night as the princess," she thought, "No more of this ugly-stepsister business."  Her fingers gathered on the doorknob and gave a firm twist, opening the night.

_And Cinderella was off to the Palace ball._


	6. Ch 5 At the ball

Sorry it's taken so long guys.  I got a note last time I updated "I thought you were dead!" and well…I certainly felt dead.  I had a busy period where I couldn't concentrate on anything but school and…well, school-related projects, but when I could finally settle down to start up my writing again…I couldn't seem to write.  I tried pushing through the block, but I found the results unsatisfactory.  I guess it was a temporary loss of passion, and I didn't think it was fair to either me or you, the reader for me to force myself to write poor material.  However, I'm back ^_^, and ready to go.  I'm hoping to have the next chapter up to you pretty soon, although…it is quite a long one, and finally, for those of you who read the original version…I can start writing NEW material!  I'm so excited! ^_^.  So read and enjoy.

Note: I do not own Sailor Moon

*************

Darien settled his lean frame back into his chair, almost hoping to disappear.  He shifted uncomfortably, his feet aching.  Andrew had insisted that there be waltzing in lieu of the royalty theme.  He even had to chuckle a little when he heard of it.  His friend was going miles out of his way to ensure that the night was a success.

            "It's uncannily like Cinderella.  Don't you think?"  He had even commissioned a gigantic castle backdrop which had taken hours not to mention an absurd amount of money to make.  Everything he did was a nice gesture to say the least, but Darien had to draw the line somewhere.  He had just barely escaped the elaborate costumes Andrew had ordered in his overzealous frenzy.  Purple capes weren't a part of his repertoire, but Andrew's efforts were commendable.  

            Darien scanned the crowd only to reconfirm what he already had seen.  It was unmistakable—the sheer number of women in attendance and most were bold enough to demand his attention.  He had just broken away from the dance floor which was really something akin to a feeding pool.  Without a doubt, the women had gone insane, and their subtle glances quickly became a physical demand.  Before long, he found himself the subject of a refined game of tug-of-war, but tug-of-war nonetheless.  He was pulled from woman to woman, more and more wildly as the dancing progressed, but finally, fury met fury as the women clashed.  Taking his chance, he had ducked away just as they diverted their attention from him.  

            "Insane," he muttered.  He had heard of competition, but this was beyond what he could have imagined.  His hand reached down to massage his calf which had been the unfortunate receptor of a stiletto heel while he made his getaway.  A quiet moan escaped his lips as he pressed onto the tender wound, and another was elicited by the slender palm that made its way across his chest.

            "You've removed yourself from the party Mr. Shields," came a low purr.  A fragrant length of blond hair brushed his nose as the hand extended to reach his, and his eyes trailed her fingers brushing alongside the line of his thigh.  "Allow me to introduce myself.  I'm Lisa Devou."

            He smiled politely, a plastic smile he had long since perfected, and taking her hand, he led her to the front of him as she was standing at his back, and gently, she positioned her body against his, her breasts at a comfortable eye level.

            "Your guests are anxious to meet you Mr. Shields," she said.  Her voice was low and sultry, deepened with obvious effort, and her eyes carried a hungry glint as she failed to hide her obvious appreciation of his form.

            "And you would be one of them?"

            "I'm the most anxious of all."  Her full lips curved into a smile as they leaned in to meet his with ravenous vigor.

            "These women don't waste time," he thought.  He kept his eyes open as he kissed her, taking notice in the angry glares and busy whispers from the crowd.  It seemed as if half the room had frozen just to watch him and the woman in his lap.  He chuckled quietly as he pulled away from her greedy kiss.  She stumbled off as he stood, but he looked away, taking care not to study her face too closely.

            "Miss Devou," he politely nodded to the woman, his movements epitomizing charm, "Your audience awaits."  He turned away, and gave a brief salute to his astonished guests.

*************

The crisp autumn night sported a clear sky, almost completely void of stars.  Among the building tops and smog of New York City, only one remained in visibility.  Andrew sighed, leaning on the side of the grand Plaza Hotel.  The wind whipped cold and brutal by his nose, and his breath escaped in mists.  

            It was a curious thing—the night air.  It smelled clean, and Andrew laughed.  There was no such thing as clean air in New York.  He jammed his hands deftly into his pockets to escape the brittle temperatures similarly to the way he had had to escape the party upstairs.  However indifferent he was to the night, it was a stark improvement to the ballroom that he had worked so long and hard to set up.  The atmosphere was suffocating—the women like starving dogs, and it was never much fun to play the bone.  He looked around, hoping that Darien had more luck than he did.  In truth, he had only hoped for one arrival, the only one that counted, but Mina wasn't coming.  He had known that—even when her invitation was being written out.

            What ever happened the good days?  When things were shiny and new, and New York City was a marvel to a young, naïve boy in love.  There had been so much he'd never seen, never experienced, never felt, and he endeavored to live the dream with Mina by his side.  But punch-drunk stupors never last, and now, he had seen and felt everything—seen and felt too much.  Things are never as good the second time around.  He wasn't happy; he hadn't been for a long time.  How long had it been?

            She wasn't in love anymore.  He knew.  Mina was passionate like no other.  She had once told him that she would rather die in his arms than live anywhere else, and he didn't put it past her.  She never lied about love.  She wouldn't have left him if she had love for him still, any passion, any feelings at all.  She said she owed herself too much to pass up a chance at love.

            "I do too," he thought.  She deserved to love again, and someone deserved to be loved by her, but the thought of her lying in someone else's arms, smiling and willing, professing her devotion…

            "Damn it!" he cursed beneath his breath, and he felt his hands clench in jealous rage.  He brought his fist to the building side in frustration, and took it back slowly with quick notice to its throbbing pain.

            "Don't hurt yourself buddy.  Who knows?  I might need you someday."  Darien looked out into the street, his hands nonchalantly hanging from his sides, and his lips splayed a sideways smile at his flustered friend.  "A little angry tonight?"

            Andrew shook his head, and tried not to smile as he shook a finger at the man beside him, "You're sneaky."

            Darien held his hands out innocently, "I haven't done a thing."

            "How long have you been standing there?"

            "Not too long, if you must know, but after I got word that you left the party, did you really expect me to stay?"

            Andrew ran a hand through his hair, "I was hoping you'd found someone to engage yourself with."

            "Or engage myself to," Darien quipped.

            "I wouldn't have minded."

            "Well, it's a mad house up there." He added, "I really wish you had invited some decent women."

            Andrew snorted, "So you noticed too."        

            "I had a near-death experience on the dance floor.  I was being pulled in so many directions."

            He laughed, "Well, did you actually speak with any of them?"

            "Yes, and I must say, I don't believe I've ever had more stimulating conversation." He said sarcastically.  "So have we failed in our endeavor, my friend?"

            "Not exactly," Andrew grinned, "And who ever said there was a "we" involved?  Last time I checked, you were full up against the very idea of it."

            "And the last time I checked, it's a lot harder to fish without the bait.  What do you mean by not exactly?"  Darien raised an eyebrow, "Cryptic messages don't sit well on the stomach late at night."

            Andrew smirked, enjoying his pull, "Take a guess."

            "I'm not going back upstairs."

            "No need Darien, not if my plans don't go askew."

            "Are we talking secret weapons?"

            He paused.  Andrew hadn't really thought of Serena as any type of secret weapon.  She and Darien would be something like oil and water, and the two never mixed.  His friend had rich tastes, especially when it came to women, and rich, Serena seemed anything but.  Darien was a charmer.   Even as a young boy, he was always able to get out of the stickiest predicaments.  If given the chance, he would charm Manhattan into his bed, and he was getting dangerously close.

            "Well?" Darien grinned, his interest peaked. 

            "I invited a special guest I met earlier in the week at a charming bistro downtown.  It was almost an apology at first, I spilled a cup of coffee all over her, but she's a very nice girl."

            Intrigue danced in Darien's eyes as he laughed heartily, "A mysterious woman?  You've been holding out on me Andrew.  What's her name?"

            "You'll be disappointed to know that I didn't invite her for you.  I just wanted her to have some fun, that's all, and you wouldn't be interested.  She's not your type at all."  Andrew topped off his words with an exaggerated shrug, hoping he had done enough to put off his friend's curiosity.

            Darien smiled disarmingly, "You forget.  Not my type—is exactly my type.  Don't worry about a thing Andrew.  All I ever want is a little—"  He stopped, his sentence cut short by the smooth arrival of a black, stretch limousine.

            "Perfect," he whispered, "She's here."  His legs carried him towards the door where he knew she was waiting, and Andrew tagged closely behind.

            "Don't Darien," he warned.

            The dark head turned, "Don't what?  I'm just curious."

            "Don't hurt her.  I know this girl.  Don't hurt her."

            Darien stopped, half taken-aback by the sincerity in his voice.  Andrew rarely interfered in his female affairs, and it made him all the more determined.  He felt an odd passion in him, an energy that coursed through his body at the thought of this mysterious woman that was stronger than what he normally experienced, and he worked to maintain an indifferent face, a skill that had come naturally to him as of late.

            "I wouldn't think of it," he answered, but Andrew furrowed his brow, gripping his shoulder before he could move any further.

            "You never think of it.  It just happens, so I'm telling you to stay away from her."

            Darien sighed, turning to face his friend with earnest, "I feel something Andrew—something different.  I really do, and all I've heard for the past few months is talk of finding "the one."  Well, what if she is?  I'll never know unless I meet her, and if she's not, I'll control myself.  I promise; I will."

            "You don't know anything about her."

            "But I'm on fire already," he paused, "You go get her," he indicated with his head, "Your driver recognizes you.  That's why he hasn't already gone, and you obviously care about this girl.  So you go."

            Andrew cocked his head confusedly.  He knew Darien well enough to know how unlike him it was to relinquish any contact with a woman he was interested in, but he moved towards the door anyway, pausing to turn back.  "She hasn't replaced Mina, you know."

            He nodded, "How could she?"

*************

Serena fidgeted in her seat, as she smoothed the length of her skirt, peering into a side mirror to check her reflection for the umpteenth time.  The girl that stared back at her wasn't the same as the one in her place that morning; she couldn't have been.

            "But don't ruin a good thing," she thought nervously to herself, as if she could somehow wish away the way she looked.  She sighed, trying to relax in the smooth ride of the car; she had never been in a limousine before, but she imagined it would be much more enjoyable under a more comfortable situation.  She had gone over the last few days so many times in her mind that she was sitting easily in the hundreds of thousands, and yet, she still hadn't been able to come up with what she was looking for, given that, of course, she even knew what that was.  An excuse?  A pardon of some sort?  Guilt still rang sharply at the edge of her thoughts where she had tried, with some difficulty, to push it, but there was no reason, no plausible one at least.  She had come to New York for a reason, and she was successful.  It wasn't like home.  No one knew who she was.  There was nothing wrong with enjoying herself once in a while, maybe even, meet another man, except that she would be falling into the same trap—somewhere else she didn't belong.

            She shook her head, forcing her eyes from her lap to the window, and her thoughts to what she saw, which, unfortunately, wasn't much.  The tint of the glass hindered the visibility so severely that she saw little other than the lights that lined the street.  She heaved a shallow sigh, slightly disappointed as she noted that the lights began moving by more and more slowly.  Eventually, the momentum of the vehicle was brought down to a stop, and she felt her muscles stiffen as she swallowed deeply, trying to relieve some tensions.  She debated in her mind whether to ask the driver to send her back home or to exit to her left.  Her pace quickened as she struggled to keep it down, breathing deeply and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

            "Just one night," she thought, "I owe it to myself."  She peered forward at the driver, still in his seat, and raised a nervous hand to the door handle, surprised as it popped open with a blunt snap before she had even reached it.

*************

            Darien sauntered back, closer to the building as he watched his friend traverse the sidewalk to the limousine, and the effort to keep his demeanor nonchalant was nearly a struggle.  He was suddenly aware of his heart, his pulse growing more and more rapid with each second, and he shook his head, trying to laugh off his bodily state.  It had been a while since he was faced with such mystery…and yet he couldn't bear to tear his eyes away from the woman emerging from the vehicle.  Andrew had her by the hand, and he saw—one delicate wrist followed by a smooth leg which introduced a woman astonishingly beautiful.  Her pallor seemed to melt into her white dress, making it seem like a second skin, and she glowed—like an angel.  He felt his heart beating impossibly fast, as he continued to stare, wanting to drink in her image and whet his thirst.  He had met hundreds of women in his life, but none of them like her, not a single one.  The very sight of her bewitched him, and he couldn't look away.

            "Evening Cinderella," he heard Andrew say, and his voice brought his feet back down to the pavement.  He still held both her hands, and the concerned expression that darkened her features melted away as she smiled and laughter poured from her lips so naturally that Darien knew a frown wasn't meant to grace her face.  He felt a sudden pang of jealousy though, as Andrew reached forward and wrapped his arms around her slight frame.

            "Let me introduce you to my friend," Andrew said, directing her gaze to Darien, "Serena, this is Darien.  Darien—Serena."

            She looked forward to be welcomed by the deepest blue she had ever seen.  His eyes flashed as her own flickered over them, noting the shock of black hair that donned his head, and it soon became apparent that she was just as taken with him as he was with her.  He took her small hand into his and brought it gently to his lips, enjoying the feel of her skin against his, and she swallowed deeply as his warmth enveloped her hand, her breath caught exquisitely in her chest.

            "Good Evening," he breathed, leaning forward subtly in response to his body's desire to touch her and hold her against him, and as the couple stood, each more flustered than the other, Andrew merely stood at the side, watching them with amusement and interest.  He hadn't expected Darien to receive her so warmly, nor her to him, but then, he hadn't expected her to come looking like she did.  She seemed almost a new person entirely, and he had been so shocked when she emerged from the limousine that he had to collect himself to keep from asking who she was.  It was only her eyes that gave her away, nothing else seemed to have remained the same, but it was a welcome change.  He had seen a beauty in her before, but tonight—she was breathtaking.

            "We should get Serena upstairs to the party.  It wouldn't be fair for her to miss it just because we were having a dull time.  The women seemed to be enjoying themselves up there."

            Darien felt his body tense, at the mention of going upstairs.  The crowds would rip her away from him in jealousy for sure.  He couldn't risk that.  His hand still clutched hers, and he gently pulled her towards him in a sign of possession.  She noticed, and tilted her gaze to his face, surprised.  Their eyes met with an astounding intensity, exploding in a passionate heat that astonished them both.

            "I don't think that's a good idea," said Darien, collecting himself.  "The women are probably furious that we left.  I'm surprised they haven't hunted us down already."

            "There are plenty of other men up there for them to snatch up."

            Serena fought to suppress a chuckle that itched her throat.  What kind of party was this?  She felt Darien's hand close tighter around her own.

            "I'd rather go somewhere else," he objected.

            Serena nodded her assent, "I don't think it'll be fair for the both of you to return when you don't want to.  I'm sure I won't miss a thing."

            "Alright then," Andrew smiled jauntily, "Where to?"  He knew Darien.  He wanted to be alone with her; he could see it in his eyes, but he didn't want Serena to end up like the blond that had been escorted from his apartment just earlier that week.  He noted that there was a marked difference in his behavior tonight than usual, but he had taken Serena and assured her that she was in good hands.  He didn't want to risk another heartbreak in Darien's arms.

            Darien lowered his head to Serena, "Let's go away—alone," he said, emphasizing his last word.

            "And am I supposed to stand out here?" Andrew entreated Serena's sympathy, knowing he would get none from Darien.

            "Well," she started, not wanting to leave her friend, but she glanced at Darien, the shadows licking at his face illuminating his handsome features so enticingly.  Her words were left abandoned behind her lips.

            "Go back to your party," he said, "They're probably rallying up there.  One of us should go."

            "Then let's go together to make it fair," Andrew took a step towards the door, "It's your party as much as—" he stopped.  They were gone. "Mine."


	7. Ch 6 Fate takes hold

Note: I do not own Sailor Moon : Enjoy! ^ _ ^

***************

Serena couldn't help but release a bout of laughter as Darien guided her behind cars and streetlamps, trying to dodge Andrew's prying view.  He shushed  her as they dove behind a bush with a gentle crash and steadied her as she grew dangerously close to toppling over, but his hands held on for longer than necessary as did the blush that graced her face.  They both felt well aware of the heat that passed between them, making them numb to much of anything else—namely Andrew's frustrated entreaties, directed mostly at the night sky.  Both men knew their futility, but each like the other, neither would end their persistence.  Andrew knew who was winning this game.  Darien had been running from him for nearly half and hour now.  He should have known from the start that it was a waste of time to follow.  It may have seemed like a child's game, but to Darien, it was the pursuit of a burning desire.  

The fugitive felt possessiveness course through his body as he watched his friend turn left and right in the street.  Andrew wanted to keep her away from him; he had seen it in his eyes and body language, heard it in his voice even before she arrived, and in her presence, he tried to stand closer to her and hover above her slight frame as to keep her near to him.  Darien shook his head, sending his friend a mental note that he was sure was realized long ago.  His actions only turned craving into necessity.  Whether Andrew was concerned for her or felt genuine feelings toward her was irrelevant .  Darien wanted most what he was made to believe he couldn't have.  He had wanted Serena from the moment there was any mention of her, but he hadn't expected to be astonished, hadn't expected her beauty.

He looked down at her, at her face, which similarly directed itself to his.  Her magnificent cheeks were flushed with the heat of excitement, and her lips were parted in a glorious smile that sparked a grin on his own visage.  However, her eyes took him aback and surprised him with the intensity of the pure adulation they mirrored.  Serena, for a second, unapologetically admired the man that stood above her.  Even under the clean lines of his suit, she could imagine the chiseled cuts of muscle that graced his body.  He encompassed a savage strength that flowed smooth and snapped into his wholeness like a puzzle piece, and there was a confidence in him that made him look and feel alive and strong with invincibility, a thought that sent an unexpected thrill up her spine.  It excited her.  _He_ excited her, and she could only help but wonder, even as she looked intently into his eyes, what more lied behind them?  She smiled at her enigmatic stranger, feeling the thrill of surprise, of not knowing what would happen next and relishing the thought.

"Is he gone?  Do you think?" Darien whispered as he brushed away a soft strand of her hair, which had become wonderfully disheveled in their flight.

She nodded, denying the jolt of guilt that threatened to pervade her mind, a painfully conscious thought process that trailed all the unnecessary evils that she often plagued herself with.  Sensing her discomfort, Darien gave her hand a gentle squeeze, his warmth permeating to her senses, but the floodgates had been opened, and for the first time in the night, she began to question herself.  How had she been so willing to forsake her friend for a man so freshly met, and still, how could she know with such certainty that if he asked her to follow him to the ends of the Earth, she would do it?  There was an inexplicable attraction that she held towards him, but the notion clawed desperately at her mind, trying to escape.  Nothing based on such rash ideas could be solid, nor could anything good come of it.  She knew that; she had experienced that, but there was a sliver of her heart that refused to let herself abandon what she was tangled in—not the look in his eyes or how right it all felt.  He was as sincere in his emotions as she was; she knew it, and she would invest everything into the raw passion she felt between them if it meant she would be allowed his love.  Her heart sliver hung out tenaciously and won.  She wanted the world she found in his eyes, even if only for one night.

            "Let's go," he breathed, smoothly making a break from the ground.  His hands fitted expertly around her waist and provided her the same service.  Both noticed, but neither minded as he lingered beneath the swell of her breasts for what would normally be a visit too lengthy for comfort.  He extended a hand to her to be met with her own, and she smiled, relishing only the thought of skin on skin and asked no questions.

*************

"Are we there yet?" Serena broke the silence of their walk with timid voice.

"Close your eyes," he said, "I'll surprise you," but now they had been walking in, what seemed like, countless circles and through countless doors.   He spoke to her every time he sensed her uncertainty to allay her worries.  She was in good hands—his, and although they hadn't yet reached their destination, surprises came to her every second.  The smooth baritone of his voice, the smell of his cologne, the warmth of his breath on her neck, and ultimately, the gentleness of the touch of such an inherently powerful man, everything about him brought a shiver to her body and drove the compulsion she felt towards him.  He had told her so much left in the words unsaid, with his body and his eyes that she knew he shared the passion that stirred within her, and she did her best to answer him back.  The heat, though the night air was cold, made her daring.

"Where are we?" she asked.  Her eyes remained tightly closed although she felt a pressing urge to open them.  She leaned heavily to the right as she felt his strong arm guiding her in that direction, and he left her for a moment in which she felt a swift chill to open a door.

"We," Darien replied, "are now entering—my masterpiece."  Serena felt a rush of warm air as she entered the doorframe and heard her  heels clack the hard, stone floor.  The sound reverberated in the darkness, lingering before it disappeared.  Even in the dark, she acquired a sense of the vastness surrounding her, feeding her curiosity.

 Darien led her forward, gripping her hand and pressing it gently onto the smooth seat of a bench, he motioned for her to sit down.  She felt the polished wood blindly, trying to make her transition as smoothly as possible, and in seating herself, she found, with alarm, that she could no longer detect his presence around her.

"Darien?" she called.  Her body was suddenly clutched in the panic that he had left her, brought her here and left, and even while she realized the absurdity of the thought, she couldn't help thinking it and feeling it—right down to her core.  She brought her fingers in to her palms as she felt them moisten, feeling old emotions resurfacing, feeling more vulnerable than she was comfortable with.

"I'm here," he whispered, and sensing her panic, although not to the extent to which she felt it, he gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze, "No need to worry."

His fingers followed along a tendril of her hair, feeling the softness of its length.  He felt her body relax just to feel him near, even though her eyes remained closed, and she leaned back into him, acknowledging the hard chest that stood behind her.  Her feminine smell invaded his senses, and he snapped his lids shut as well, allowing it to surround him.  It was something he'd experienced a hundred times, but it invoked a response that was new.  It was as if a switched had been flipped on within his body, and an energy began to pool inside him, pressing and pressing until he thought he would explode if he didn't take her and touch her right then.

"If she only knew what I was feeling," he thought.  He was barely able to restrain himself.  Women didn't do this to him.  They didn't make him mad with desire; they didn't make him feel as if he would never be able to leave, that he would never want to.  That was his position, and yet, here he was.  His mind felt clouded, his emotions befuddled.  He was confused, being driven into a frenzy by a woman he didn't even know.  She made his pulse beat rapidly and his palms sweat, turning him into the awkward, gangly adolescent boy that he had never been.  Only, it wasn't the role reversal Darien had imagined it to be.  Serena felt her body responding to him in a heated manner she'd never known she was capable of, and she reached out for his hand, wanting to feel more of him.  She noticed, but didn't care that her eyes were still closed.  Her senses seemed heightened to a point that seemed foreign to her.  She could hear the rustling of his suit and feel his body heave with every breath he took.  Nothing was familiar, not even her own self, but as he wrapped his arms around her, she sensed an inkling of something that felt like safety—that felt like home.

He moved his lips close to her ear, and his breath tickled her skin with every slow syllable, "Open your eyes."

She did.  Her eyelids fluttered open briefly but almost immediately closed, needing to adjust to the brightness of the light.  Taking another look, she realized that it wasn't just the contrast that had stunned her.  The room was filled with a brilliance she'd never experienced before.  It bathed everything in a pure heavenly glow, distracting her from the very idea that she was inside, and not—in heaven.

"Oh my…" she breathed, her mind struggling to further find a single word but failed.  Her hands pushed off of the bench to bring her to her feet, and she stepped gingerly off the stone path she had been walking on before, onto the springy grass that laid beyond as if she was testing its actuality.  She repeated the process with the flowers and trees as Darien looked on amusedly, endeared by her innocent curiosity.  

"What is this place?" she asked, wide-eyed, "I thought we were inside, but—this park, this light…"

He laughed as he walked to join her on the grass, "We _are_ inside, just inside an illusion.  Look."  He directed her eyes up at the warehouse ceiling, which he had been unable to do anything about.  The rest of it, however, all came together to fabricate a powerful mirage.  It was the Garden of Eden in his mind.  He had bought and restored the building a few years ago just for the purpose of owning it.  At the time, he had had no intention of turning it into anything more whatsoever, but soon he realized that empty space was highly disadvantageous.  It sat like dead weight at the back of his mind until eventually, it twisted and turned and contorted itself into something amazing. 

"I had an idea one day," he explained, "to create a work of art that everyone could admire.  Universal beauty—because I searched the world over and found I was empty handed."  He turned to her, his hand pressing at the small of her back, drawing her nearer and nearer to him, and he caught his breath at the mere sight of her.  "I hadn't expected to find it years after my search had ended, but then I realized that I was looking for beauty in all the wrong places—in art, in poetry, in prose and never—in women.  Never in you."

Serena smiled, and he smiled with her, glad for how easy he found it to talk to her.  The grin eased the severity of his deep, azure eyes and gave them an endearing quality that made them sparkle with romantic charm.  She felt breathless in an instant, wanting to politely deny his flattery with the proper modesty but found she couldn't.  Her words became lost as she realized the drawing closeness of their bodies and the advancement of his face on hers.  His lips drew together seriously from their previous smile as they pressed on to claim their kiss.  Serena felt desire pool in her body, but she soon found herself the victim of panic clutches as a familiar heat grew in her face.  The devil on her shoulder had won, she discovered, as she found herself resisting their affinity and pulling away from him as gently as her warring emotions would allow, and when she looked up at him again, she saw in place of the enamored expression of a beautiful man, the hurt face of a broken angel.  He had felt a tearing in his heart when she tore herself from his arms.  It was the pain of reality as his spell had been broken, and he almost had to laugh at the irony.  Sometimes it didn't make much sense to be anything but a cynic—the only woman who rejected him was the only woman he wanted.  It had just been the proximity of their bodies, her heat mixed with his heat, her smell invading his nostrils had swept him up so vigorously that he found himself lost, unable to think or discern what was right and what wasn't.  His heart had screamed, and he  had followed it down the wrong path.

He shook his head, mumbling his apologies while trying to gather the pieces of himself that this woman had scattered.  Usually cool and collected, he found his package disintegrated, and he struggled to reconstruct it.  Serena watched his expression erase itself and his body straighten.  Like a peacock primping its feathers, he became grand again, but lost in her own battle, she was completely blind to what lied beyond the exterior.  She didn't see the wall rise in front of him or the hurt that lied clearly behind his eyes, the only visibility he had failed to mask.  However, her senses became acutely aware of a coldness that replaced the tenderness she had seen before, and she realized that—in her one judgment, in that one second, she had lost him, lost this night.  Her eyes, though keen as they were, saw only the end and not the means, and so, no ways to right the wrong that had taken place.  She held her breath and pursed her lips as a burning filled her nose, hoping to stave off the onslaught of tears beyond this telltale sign and hoping he wouldn't notice.

He didn't.  She hastily brushed her cheek as a solitary tear had escaped its pool and blazed its trail across her skin, her efforts having been in vain, but when she looked up expecting to find his deep, vigilant eye watching her, she saw that he had turned away.

"Darien," she started, taking care to keep her voice steady, "I should be the one to be sorry.  I—."

"Perfectly alright," he interrupted, his tone still friendly, "You have nothing to be sorry for, and we should keep it that way.  I was in the wrong."  

She opened her mouth to interject, but he continued, "Come on, I'll give you a tour of this place.  You haven't seen anything yet."  

Serena felt her heart sink.  His words were welcoming and pleasant, but he spoke to her like an acquaintance, too polite and too stiff.  She imagined his muscles shifting beneath the black of his jacket like powerful clock tower gears as he started up his movement, painfully slow and fluid.  He never looked back at her once.

"Wait!" she called, "Darien…"  He stopped and finally turned.  She had called out in the panic of the moment, but her words dug her own trap.  What could she say to him now?  She envisioned herself telling him.  She could hear her own voice admitting her whole past and why she couldn't trust herself with an act that could bring sin and heaven, each as easily as the other.  She saw him understanding and taking him into her arms, but only in her mind.  If anyone ever found out—if _he_ ever found out…She shuddered to think of what might happen.

"Where are we—exactly?" she forced.

He sighed deeply but kept it inaudible.  The beseeching look he had seen in her eyes was gone.  He had imagined it just as he imagined the desperate tone he thought he had heard in her voice.  Her pale blue eyes danced with the light of curiosity and—not much more, but still they bore into him relentlessly.  Every time he beheld her, she struck him with a power and intensity that continued to prove a shock to his senses and left him craving more, but his emotions still churned with the resounding force of her rejection.  As gentle a push that it was, it was a push nonetheless and away from him at that. 

"My garden," he replied simply.  However strong the pull of desire, his pride still weighed heavily on his thoughts.

"My initial intention was to create a park—a public one," he continued, "but after time, I think I've put too much of myself into it to subject it to the wrath of New York.  It's my Garden of Eden, and everything else wrapped into one, except you can eat the fruit."

In spite of herself, Serena chuckled, "After a day in here, I can see why anyone would be afraid to be banished to the smog outside."

Darien took four great steps to his right, motioning for her to follow, "This is my Willow, my favorite piece."  He parted the leafy curtains to reveal a set of carefully carved seats in the shelter of the vast branches.  "I modeled this part of the garden after the grounds on my grandmother's estate.  Weeping Willows make great escapes for little boys.  It was right on the edge of her property, but to get to it—"  He lifted the opposite curtain, leading Serena over and around the seats, "You had to make your way through the maze."

Serena felt her eyes bulge as she found herself face to face with an immense topiary wall of epic proportions.  It rose to nearly twice her height, and, to her dismay, she found it impossible to assume what lied behind it.  She laughed nervously at the ominous hedge as it stared her down, and found although Darien behaved decidedly colder towards her, his heart still  held compassion.  His hand reached for hers and gave a tight, reassuring squeeze.  She felt her entire being let out the breath it had been holding, feeling the danger was over, and her hand gently squeezed his in return, breaking down his barrier.  

Darien felt his pride melt away when he had directed Serena through the Willow.  The look on her face was one of a carefully controlled mixture of shock and fear, as if she were trying desperately not to reveal her emotions.  He hadn't expected her to react as strongly as she did to the maze, an element of the garden he had added for mysticism, not to put off any potential visitors.  However, he resisted the tugging urge to gather her into his arms, and instead, opted to grasp her hand.  Even the slightest contact brought relief flooding back to his body, and he even smiled when she signaled her response, soothing the wound she had opened before.

"I built this garden in layers," he explained, "three in all.  First is the park, then this maze.  It grows in a loop around the heart."

"The heart?"

He grinned, "You'll see."

Serena nodded, silently eyeing the formidable wall, "How deep is this?"

"Ten minutes walking."  Darien gingerly plucked a leaf from the hedge, and clipped it between his knuckles, making it seem fragile, almost endangered in his great hands.  It was nothing.

"The path would take longer," he added, "If I hadn't walked it so many times."  

'Many,' however, translated to once, and even after he had mapped it out, he still encountered a degree of difficulty.  He kept his face nonchalant.  It was nothing.  Nothing at all—if he remembered the trail well enough to travel smoothly.  The falsity paid for itself though, taking enormous measures to quell her nerves at the expense of his.  The distress in her eyes that she had worked so hard to suppress flickered briefly, then waned to insignificance.  

"I don't want to get lost," she said.  She made an attempt to mask the seriousness of her words in frothy laughter, as if just hearing them spoken would safe proof her from harm.  "I've always had a slight phobia of…getting lost."

"And never coming back," she thought, deliberately choosing not to voice her last words.  Some things were best left for a rainy day.

"We won't get lost," he assured.  False as it was, it gave her a great deal of comfort.  Serena admired the strong cut of his jaw and the strength she could see in his shoulders and neck.  She was overly glad of his masculinity and the calm that it brought to her, but still—she was like glass, wrapped twice in double plastic sacks as if that would keep her from shattering.  Her eyes eagerly followed his strong arms, coveting the protection they might give her, and Darien—swept up in his own desire, read her mind and took her body next to his.  Both their spirits fed off the other, their heat merging and building inside.  Serena felt herself quake as his arms locked in front of her, excited merely by his strength.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I'm ready."

*************

            "A right turn here," Darien said.  He held Serena's hand loosely.  Her grip was tight enough for the both of them, and to be honest, he was glad because in the last few minutes, he slowly came to the realization that he had lost his way.  His mind silently screamed for a miracle every time they came to an opening or dead end.  _Which way should I go?!  _And all the while, he could feel Serena become more and more tense.  Now he was only wondering how much more she could wind up before she snapped.

            "I thought this was only supposed to take ten minutes?"  It was a half statement, half question.  Why had they run into so many dead ends and why hadn't they reached the other side yet?  She tried to keep her tone as flat as possible, not wanting any trace of doubt creeping in.  She trusted him; she did.  She trusted the desirous look in his eyes and the tenderness of his touch.  He wouldn't hurt her.  That was out of the question, but his navigational skills weren't exempt from suspicion.

            He didn't stop or look back, but he narrowed his eyes, making, for the hundredth time, a frustratingly futile attempt to recognize any of the uniform emerald walls as familiar.  No such luck.  He could only hope…

            "We're not lost," he stated promptly, "It's taking a little bit longer than I thought though.  I might have accidentally made a wrong turn—no problem.  It shouldn't be long now."  He gave her hand a tight squeeze with the little movement his own was allowed.  He didn't have to look at her to know that she didn't believe him.

            "Why don't we make some conversation on the way?"  He continued.

            Serena agreed silently, hoping it would give her a chance to take her thoughts away from—being lost.  His effort was a valiant one, but for such a debonair man, he was a terrible liar.  Even so, she didn't feel as panicked as she felt was necessary.  He wouldn't hurt her.  She was safe getting lost.  So long as she was with him.

            "Tell me about this light," she said.

            "What about it?"

            "Well, for starters—what is it?  Everything glows like it's been covered in some sort of…glitter paint, but subtler.  I've never seen anything like it, even here," she laughed, "I've never seen more gorgeous hedges."

            He chuckled, making a left turn, "It's my light alchemy.  Turns everything it touches into gold—figuratively of course.  They discovered it a year ago in the labs.  We're branching out beyond toys, into other markets like household items, food, clothing lines."

            "That must be expensive," she said offhandedly.

            Darien cleared his throat uncomfortably, "It's a way of ionizing the particles in the air to give them a glittering illusion.  I don't know much more about it.  Science was never a strong subject for me."  He forced a laugh.  Her comment had caught him off guard, and unfortunately, thrown him off his track.  He knew that she hadn't meant anything by it, but it brought him crashing into a disheartening reminder of why she was even here in the first place—his contract.

            "And it is expensive," he continued, "That's why—we were only doing some introductory research.  We can pull out of it any time."

            "Well, that's good."

            He nodded silently, wondering what Andrew would say if he could hear their conversation.  He would deck him for sure, pull him to the side in that easy manner of his, and send a fist flying to his chest.  He remembered what his fair headed friend had said just a month ago.  _Visualize the goal.  Saying you aren't going to get it—well, that's as good as murder._

            Darien stuttered a little, his feet carrying them around another corner.  He was stuck as the middleman.  There was a betrayal on either side, just waiting for him to set it in motion.

            "Wait," Serena said, stopping them both, "I hear something.  It's like—water running."  She walked ahead of Darien, never once relieving her tight grasp, but he followed faithfully, surprised that she had taken the lead.  She peered around every corner with a childlike curiosity and hurriedly moved on to the next.  It shot a sliver of wariness through him to be led through a topiary maze by someone who knew even less of it than he, who had not yet been able to reach the end.

            "Come on!" she cried.  Her eager feet guided them through a great series of turns.  Now she didn't even bother to look over each corner.  They walked by with such speed that Darien, still held tightly in her tender hand, nearly careened into a wall, not having had time to turn at the bend when she did.

            "Where are we going?" he asked, half yelling now that Serena had pulled them into a quick jog.

            "We're getting out of here!"

            "But how do you know which way to go?"

            She laughed, feeling oddly carefree—oddly detached.  "I don't," she said, realizing her words just as they escaped her lips, and slowly, she stopped.  "But we're close to the end.  I feel it."  Her legs started up again, pumping slowly towards the next opening in the maze of green.  "It's right around this—"

            She stopped, her sentence cut short, and her body stood motionless at the opening.  Darien knew they had reached the end.  The sound of roaring water only punctuated how slow time seemed to be moving.  Neither of them said a thing or budged one step.

            "Is _this_ the heart?" she asked.  Her voice was barely audible over the resonation of the world beyond the walls—the world that had managed to strike her dumb.  How had she over-looked this?  Even out in the garden.  She thought, it was unlikely that anyone would have been able to miss this sight.  

            Darien nodded unthinkingly, calculating in his mind.  Serena had managed to lead them through the maze seamlessly, but how was it possible when he himself was unable to produce the end?  They arrived here in a fifth of the time it had taken him to lead them to who knows where.

            "Perhaps," he thought, "A coincidence?"  It wouldn't have hurt him to trust in a little woman's intuition once in a while, but—this was different.  She had been so terrified.  She couldn't have—not the way she did.

            "Serena," he said, "How did you know how to get here?"  It was a bit unnatural, the way it had all happened.  He raised a suspicious eye, and she turned to him, surprised.  She didn't seem to have realized the full significance of what had happened.  How _did_ she know?  

            "I—I'm not sure," she stammered, "I heard something, and it—called to me.  I followed my ears; I wanted to get here so badly.  We needed to be here….It's so beautiful."  Her voice trailed away as she turned to look back out to the heart, and Darien felt his heart beat wildly just looking at her.  Her voice resounded in his head and he felt the ground spinning from beneath him.  _We needed to be here_.

            He stopped, not asking why or for what.  He was through asking questions.  His body felt tremendously free as he stepped forward to join her at the opening, looking out, as though it was his first time—at the fruit of his garden.  They stood standing comfortably together at a cliff's edge, easily wide and long enough to accommodate a large truck.  The walls around them were no longer of leafy foliage but were made up of an authentic stone, dampened by the mist that floated liberally from the great cataract that stood directly opposite them, and Darien and Serena stepped tentatively closer to the edge of the cliff, revealing that the waterfall plunged deeply down into a wading pond nearly one hundred feet below them.  She clutched his arm, and he pulled her body next to his, feeling an unparalleled passion swell in his chest.  The mist drenched them both—her dress, his suit, but neither seemed to care.  They only brought each other closer, and each felt the desire to touch, skin-to-skin, lip-to-lip.  Darien beamed down at her, smoothing the long hair that now hung loose and damp around her face.

            "Kiss me," she whispered, her reservations having been abandoned long ago.  There was no mistaking the urgency in her voice or the fervent desire that danced heatedly in her blue eyes, and no sooner had the words reached his ear did he seize her waist with a force so wild that she was lifted bodily off the ground.  His strong arms enveloped her firmly as his lips traveled up the length of her neck, marking the trail with his burning kisses.  With one spare hand, he caressed the soft edge of her jaw line with such gentleness that it seemed he could only be attempting to counteract how roughly he had handled her before.

            "I've wanted to," he breathed into her skin, "So badly."  He felt his body ache, knowing how desperately he needed to feel her lips on his.  His thoughts and emotions were consumed by only one thing.  He kissed her.  His mouth explored hers wildly, seeming to crash and explode and sing all at the same time.  It did exquisite things to her emotions and made her world hurt in a rapturous way.  She nearly gasped, shocked by how powerfully she felt it, but it didn't end; it couldn't have, not even if she had chanced to wish it to do so.  To walk away was like living half a life—and leaving the end for never.  And so she pressed herself against him with a new urgency, matching the passion with which he took her and the tenderness with which his spirit cradled hers.  For the two, it was the kiss to end all kisses, passionate to an indescribable sense, and both their pent up desires finally let out, clashing in untamed release.  Their souls met monumentally at their centers, dancing in the fire they created, and she was sure—that if they could, the heavens would sing for her.

*************

So what'd you guys think?  How realistic was it?  Because that was my goal…magical yet realistic.  I don't know how well I hit the target, them falling in love…or in lust at least, so quickly.  It's kind of an ode to love at first sight or soul mates or…fate, all the kind of things that skeptics hate but secretly believe in.  I would know; I'm one of them.  Haha.  Review please, let me know what you think.  I'd love you forever.


	8. Ch 7 The Morning After

Note: I do not own Sailor Moon.

Enjoy! ^_^

**********

Sunlight streamed through the bedroom window of Darien's apartment more pressingly than usual.  It filled the crevices, lit up the walls, and commanded that he woke to behold it, as if the morning were desperate to show him the day.  On an outside ledge, a songbird chirped its two cents into the invitation, and the quiet melody jarred Darien abruptly awake from a sleep that was relatively pleasant, at least, compared to his wakened state.  He pushed his upper body stiffly away from the bed, acutely aware of the shroud of sleep he hadn't successfully shaken off and how foreign every inch he moved seemed to feel.  His muscles almost creaked.  If he could have heard them, he was sure they would have, like an old door.

"It's a bad morning to be awake," he thought.  He ran a quick hand haphazardly through his bedroom hair and swung his legs over the side of his mattress with more vivacity than he felt was in him, and his head was hit with its recoil, still hissing in the hot thickness of sleep.  His night had been one with dreams so vivid that he found he was having trouble discerning whether or not he was still clutched within one.  He seemed to be sensing two places all at once.  His eyes transferred familiar walls to his mind, but he saw his garden and smelled the night.  His skin was dull with the consequences of sleep, and yet it was still on fire.  He could feel the night's heated passions licking at his ankles, which were, at the same time, meeting the cool silk of his sheets.  Where was he really?

He shut his eyes, trying fervently to think himself back to his dreams and denying that he was all at the same time.  He knew exactly where he was, exactly what had happened, and he cursed this knowledge, thinking his dreams would have brought him more happiness.  

He looked around at his apartment, newly remodeled just days before.  He had brought Serena here merely hours ago.  They escaped the maze with miraculous ease, Serena leading the way, and once they had left his garden behind, he called for a taxicab.  This was where they had ended up.  He didn't remember what made him decide to bring her here.  

He furrowed his eyebrows.  He didn't remember why he did a lot of the things he did last night, but his memory did dote on her fleeting touches and shy kisses, trailing white hot on his skin.  This, he knew with certainty.  Among the haze, she seemed to be his beacon of light, and he could imagine everything about her right down to the way she smelled—like flowers and honey.  Every move she made, she made tentatively as if she were afraid of what response she might elicit, and he was all too ready to calm his fires with her.  At first, in insignificant doses until he finally let in to the pressing desires beneath his skin.  He could feel it—the beast raging within him to be let out.  It demanded that he kiss her, and he did.  He kissed her firmly and heatedly, pushing as hard as he dared for her sake as well as his.  He thought his lips would burn, and in all her fragility, her body seemed like glass beneath his.  All the while he kissed her, he fought a silent battle with the temptations that felt strong enough to break her gentle frame, but she made it clear, after the shock of his attack had passed, that she felt otherwise, upping his stakes as she matched his passion and more.  He felt himself grow impossibly aroused as their bodies  began to fall into a rhythm, crashing like waves on the tumultuous sea.  He sat patiently like a guard at the gates of her mouth, though his hunger was like that of a predator's, and he begged entrance.  Their tongues had danced wildly back and forth in his triumph, pushing and pulling each of their desires in the storm, and the smooth skin of her thighs rubbed enticingly against his palms beneath the fabric of her dress.   He remembered a groan as he felt her small hands pulling at the collar of his shirt, but he didn't know who had let it out.  With her quick chain of urgent tugs, she had succeeded in partially undressing him, and the feel of skin against skin opened them both to a whole other world of possibilities.  He felt his desires knocking again, this time getting closer to the open door, and he realized, with much reluctance, that they had gone too far already.  His mind was still screaming for him to stay.  Stay.  But he didn't.  

It took every particle of strength he possessed to pull away, and even more to keep himself from taking her again.  He felt dizzy from his restraints like suddenly he hadn't eaten or slept for days, and he tried not to look at her, thinking the very sight would drive him mad, but she was so beautiful—the most beautiful he had seen her that night.  Her hair fell smoothly over her shoulders, tousled gently so that it brushed against the sides of her face.  He thought she nearly glowed silver in the light, creating a halo around her that made her seem untouchable, and he found himself wanting, more than anything, to see her in the morning.  He smiled at her, his safe house  in the storm, even though his body ached from his battles with temptations.  She made him feel so happy—even just from looking at her, and he marveled at this new revelation, treating it with the caution of a gentle skeptic.

He had known for years—the potency of desire, known for years that his thirsts could be quenched at the snap of his fingers, but this…this was another game altogether.  He scoffed at love, but all the while, went back for a second glance—like private information.  Andrew's diary.  He came upon it every once in a while, and while he knew he should avert his eyes, he looked every time.  Could he have been in love?  Impossible, but maybe.  He didn't want to wait around to find out, so he asked her, perhaps more callously than he should have.  He asked her to stay the night, and for the longest time after that, neither of them spoke.  His mind flashed back to awkward high school movie dates with sweaty palms, and things that weren't really amusing but you laughed uproariously at because you just needed something to giggle at.  How funny.  

He wanted to wipe his hands on the back of his pants, knowing that he hadn't been this nervous in a long time.  Her silence affected both of them.  Suddenly, there was a pained expression in her eyes, and he suspected that its residence there had only just been discovered, that she had been sporting it for quite some time.  She questioned him with her face, asking him why and how before any actual words escaped her lips.

She asked to go home.

He was shocked, even though, had he been more intuitive, he could have seen it coming, could have prevented it coming.  His discretions had confused her, taken her rewards away, and now, he was giving them back with a closed fist, dangling the carrot in front of the horse.  What could she do but run away?  No one wanted to be trapped like that.

Darien sighed, finally pushing off the bed to the ground.  His feet on the cold floor chased away what was left of his haze.  That had been his dream—his dream of a night that was real as real could get.  He slept alone, and he knew why.  There was no warm body next to him, and he knew why.  Such misery was made even more miserable by the fact that he couldn't dismiss it.  She wasn't someone to be taken out with the morning trash.  He couldn't wash his hands of her.  She was up to his neck, and he was stuck.  

He wondered if he could ever stop thinking about her, if he could ever want to.  His body still shuddered with the force of his unspent desire, and he fought the urge to relieve himself—an adolescent habit that he despised.  She brought him to this.  She had such power over him, and he welcomed it with wary eyes.  Despite everything, he couldn't bring himself to dispel the twinge of skepticism to believe, a reluctance to the possibility of such quick, fiery, passionate…love?  He had always imagined that he would see his intended and _know_.  They would meet with a bang, some extravagant sign would set them apart from all the others.  It was just part of the grand design.

He shook his head.  How could anything have been grander than Serena?  He despised his prudence.  He just didn't know.  Even though his heart screamed its knowledge, how could one night—one woman, change so much in him?

He fumbled blindly to his left, armed with firm resoluteness to delve deeper into the matter.  If there were landmines ahead of him, he wanted to know.  He needed help finding Serena and everything about her—perhaps starting with her last name, and Andrew was the only one who could relay it.  He wasn't anxious to meet Andrew this morning.  Undoubtedly, he could be upset with him, but he would have been grateful with even the smallest piece of her puzzle—the perfume she wore, the type of coffee she drank, or whether she drank coffee at all.  

His hand gripped his phone, punching in numbers with quick, deft strokes, naturally hoping that each second brought him closer to seeing Serena again.  It surpassed desire, almost bordering on necessity.  He didn't know what he'd do if he never met her again.  It frightened him.  Could he be falling in love?

That frightened him too.  He had waited so long, waited until he couldn't wait anymore, until he dismissed it as a figment of fairy tales and storybooks.  Had he found love now?  And so suddenly?  He couldn't be sure, in some ways, didn't want to be sure.  He didn't want to have to look back and regret his days, and yet, he could swear that he almost felt his body apologizing already, begging forgiveness from the heart he let go cold.  He had questions that needed to find an end, questions that didn't want answers but needed them.  So he knew—without a doubt, that they lied with Serena.

*************

            "I don't know what I expected," Serena sighed.  She climbed onto Lita's mattress, folding her legs underneath her and felt just as uncomfortable as she looked, but the discomfort soothed her nerves.  It brought an equilibrium of sorts—like the physical was supposed to meet the emotional.  She ignored the stinging sensation that attacked her foot, knowing it would soon be numb, and she wished that the balance couldn't be thrown off as easily as it was made, that she could feel just as numb on the inside.  She shut her eyes, savoring the pain as it lasted.  It brought her back to earth and eased her mind.  Even the littlest bit helped.

Lita watched her friend sitting thoughtfully on the bed and furrowed her brow, trying unsuccessfully to understand why she found her situation so unsettling.  She swung a foot onto the floor, and the rest of her body promptly followed it, discovering that she could reach the opposite wall in four long strides, seven normal ones.  Her feet only really had to touch the ground once in the middle if she made a big leap, but despite all her activity, she couldn't think up a thing to say.

"Well," she started hesitantly, "People usually say 'they don't know what they expected'…when their expectations aren't met.  Like, when my parents were disappointed in me after I pierced my eyebrows, they shook their heads and said, 'We don't know what we expected from you, but this isn't it.'"  She paused pensively, "But this is a _good_ thing isn't it?"

Serena shook her head, "I don't know."  She had thought and rethought the situation over and over in her head, replayed the night time and time again, but each time would just emphasize the passion she had felt.  It seemed that every time she reinforced her heart, she would unwittingly up her refusal.  Things didn't happen like this; they just didn't, and you couldn't—fall in love—so quickly.

"If you have the audacity to call this love."  She thought indignantly.  She found the response immediate at her disposal, but in her mind, she gently refuted herself.  

"You shouldn't be so reluctant to believe in love."  She felt the sudden weight of her consciences on her shoulders—her angel and devil telling her what to do.  She just didn't know which was which.  Her youth had taught her that love was hard to come by, if nothing else.  By fifteen, she decided that she had lost her glass slippers forever.  The option, though, was always there, hanging just high enough so her small frame couldn't reach.  She had always wanted to believe that if someday she finally caught it—it would lead her to a dream.  But sometimes, forgetting was just easier than holding on to something that she even questioned the existence of.  What could she do?  Love stood waiting out there somewhere, but she thought it had long since started waiting for someone new

She stopped and paused and looked over to Lita who was looking straight back at her.  Two sets of eyes bored into each other, one ocean blue and the other artificially green.  Serena stared, supplicating silent help from the only person she knew to ask it from.  What would Lita say if she knew?  Did _she_ believe in love?

The provisional redhead sighed and looked away.  It had been a long night of not knowing what to say.  Her friend had gone and experienced the night of a lifetime, and she was miserable about it for such little apparent reason.  What _was_ there to say?  She was tired, and a frown was tugging threateningly at the corners of her mouth, pushing a rumbling yawn closer and closer to her lips.  

"Most likely," Serena thought, "She'd tell me to go to sleep."  She felt guilt settling in on her stomach, joining the collection of emotions that had already taken to staying there.  She was sure, that if she could see it, it would closely resemble the jumble of a child's shoebox, though she didn't feel half as cheerful.  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the hours digit of Lita's flashing alarm clock switch from five to six—right on the hour.  She hadn't gotten any sleep, and she knew that Lita had only caught a few hours worth.  

It was a quarter till four when she had asked Darien to send her home.  He had planned on coming, but she insisted that he didn't.  For all she knew, in his eyes, she was the heiress to a multi-million dollar fortune.  His illusion would stay intact.  He couldn't know who she really was.  She could only imagine the shock on his face if he discovered that he had spent the night with an impoverished waitress, living off meager tips and friendly generosity.  Even his driver had sounded surprised when he realized where she lived.  He made her repeat herself twice, and that was when she realized that she hadn't just created her illusion, she lived it, and she didn't want to stop.  

Once he left, Serena was at Lita's door in an instant, even before she set a foot through her own, which sat rotting and peeling at the threshold of her apartment, despicable because it was so far away from the world she had just come back from.  Her thoughts were just too much for her to be left alone with.  Even as she made the trek to Lita's place, she felt them grasping at her feet and dragging down her steps, but now she regretted coming.  For all Lita's friendship and generosity, she repaid her by soliciting help for petty problems at ungodly hours of the night.

"Well, you had an amazing night with an amazing man," Lita finally said, "I can't imagine how you could think it a bad thing."  She kept her tone flat, but her inflection on 'bad,' clearly let Serena know of her impatience.  _She_ would have enjoyed a night like that.

"It's not…entirely a bad thing," Serena argued weakly, "It's just so horribly complicated."  She looked over at Lita whose annoyance had not ebbed a bit.

"It wasn't a total loss though," she added.  Her feeble attempt at pacification flopped pathetically, "He made me feel things I'd never felt before, at least not so strongly, and I'd never felt so alive…."  She ended on a high note, almost a question.  Her last words flowed slowly, like the thing they wanted most was to stay on her tongue, like they were trying to get her to taste them.  She surprised herself.  She hadn't expected for what she said to be so—true.  Though she may have already known how she felt, it was an entirely different thing to hear it spoken out loud, and such was the previous unspoken state of her emotions that she was given room to disregard their existence.  She couldn't deny it now.  Not after hearing it spoken, not after _feeling _it pour out of her.  For an instant, she desperately scanned the air as if the words she said had lingered and she could take them back, shove them back down her throat and pretend they were never let out in the first place, but she knew she couldn't.  Her gaze dipped down to her hands, half expecting to find that she had opened a can of worms along with her near revelations, and she wondered, with trepidation, whether or not she should open her lips to the avalanche that threatened to spill out.

"You could find something you don't want," her mind warned, and she nodded in agreement.  Perhaps some things were better left unsaid and unrealized.  She didn't want to think that she was—in love… Of course she wasn't in love.  How could she be?

She agreed again, feeling a growing sense of empowerment.  She suddenly felt the desire to find love—just to laugh in its face.  Love didn't have a thing on her.  She was different from all the fools falling at its feet.  She had control, and she would walk away from the night, walk away from Darien Shields without a regret among her thoughts.  She had, at least, done it earlier in the night hadn't she?

"Yes!" she thought, claiming her victory.  She wanted to shout it out to the rooftops, declare to the world that she had overcome love, that she wasn't its slave, but at the same time, she was terrified that if she opened her lips, even the tiniest bit, she wouldn't be able to control the words that would come tumbling out.  Love would have nothing to do with it, but she just didn't want to speak.

She drew in breath in one quick shallow movement, stealing what she needed from the great reservoir so that she could build up an emergency supply if ever she decided to protect herself from the words that commanded a life of their own, but all the while—she knew.  She could feel them rising up inside of her, begging to be let out, and she could feel the tears that welled angrily on the surface of her eyes, resulting from her rejection.  Her body was not her own, and it quaked and shook with the impact of those words fighting for their freedom.  So she held her breath…knowing that the next time she breathed, she would hear her insides spill themselves into the room she was in, and she would never be able to deny that they existed.

            "When I first saw him," she started, her voice surprisingly soft for all the relief she felt, "I swear…I thought I felt the ground shake beneath me, and I felt like I was suddenly aware of all the lights around me, all the sounds and smells, but I couldn't see anything but him.  His eyes were just so blue, even from a distance.  I felt like I was in a movie Lita.  I never imagined anyone could be so beautiful, even just the thought of him.  I was so taken, just by his face and the way he walked or the way his hair fell so casually into his eyes, but then—I talked to him, and he touched me, and he held me.  I felt so right in his arms.  Even when he took me to a place I didn't know, I felt safe.  I knew I could trust him.  I just…knew," she paused, "And then—he kissed me.  So tenderly.  I'd never been kissed like that before, like his soul was reaching into mine, and the pieces just melded together, like we were parts of a puzzle.  He pulled me into him.  Every step he took, I took too.  Every time he breathed, I breathed.  I have _never_ needed anybody like that before; I've never felt so needed, and I never wanted to stop.  It was so intense.  I wanted more, but it was like there was so much inside of me, my body couldn't possibly hold it all in.  I thought I was going to explode right then and there and die in his arms.  I thought I was going to die, but Lita…if you could have seen me, I would have been smiling—like dying with him was alright.  Dying with him was perfect.  I couldn't have been happy anywhere else Lita… not anywhere else."

            She inhaled deeply, marking her end as she took in a great lungful of air, and the room seemed to be filled with the sound of her breaths because, as she saw it, she no longer had to safeguard herself against her emotions.  It was over.  It was too late, and both of them knew it.

            Lita stared, wide-eyed, and neither woman spoke.  Serena could taste the silence on her tongue, and she thought that if she wanted to, it was thick enough to bite into.  She hadn't expected to feel so much or so deeply or so strongly.  Not last night.  Not now.  She just hadn't expected to feel so—anything.  What had started as an effort to explain to both herself and Lita that she wasn't just wasting time, ended a thick, sobbing confession that the heart she had been taught to wear beneath her shirtsleeve was pilfered—no longer hers.

Her eyes fell onto the threads that wove back and forth though the folds of the bed sheets, not really seeing them, but wanting to.  She felt a sudden urge to plunge into the bed, just to count the threads, just to prevent the onslaught of thought that she knew would barrage her mind, but her eyes blurred before she could grant herself the chance, right on cue, and a lone tear fell, creating a wispy silver stain exactly the color of her nail polish.

            She imagined that there were thirty four threads woven vertically, from one side of her pool—to the next, and she covered it with her finger, wishing that same finger was on her lips instead.  Her breath rolled over her tongue, tremulously, her chest almost rasping, and she opened her mouth in a whisper even less audible than her sighs.

            "I'm in love."

*************

Darien sat in the driver's seat of his Mercedes, the top set up as a precautionary security measure.  He had known from the very first glance that this wasn't the ideal neighborhood for comfort living, and even less a neighborhood he would spend his days in.  There were no screeching alley cats or discordant housewives, none that he could see in any case, but they were easily conjured up in his imagination.  It was just that kind of place, and it was made worse by the suggestion that Serena could often be found here.

He pushed his sunglasses away from his eyes and ran a quick hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face in an attempt to see more clearly what was around him.  Perhaps there was something he didn't see, something that would draw a woman like her to a place like this, but all he witnessed from behind his tinted windows was a ragged shell of a man, sleeping soundly or lying unconscious on the cold pavement.  His shallow breaths escaped in short lengths of mist, and from the look of him, he was a homeless, his possessions all gathered up in one precious bag and bundled from one shelter to the next.

The very sight of the man pained his conscience and pulled at his heartstrings.  Last night, while this man slept in the cold, the rich and powerful had gathered on the other side of the city at his beckoning to fraternize at a gala that could easily have cost more than a decade of the livelihood of this homeless man, and it made him want to curse it all, curse all the people and the money and the industry that sucked them in.  He brought a hand to his eyes as if he were trying to rub the exhaustion out of them, and the exhaustion, he knew, stemmed from all the heartlessness he saw everyday—even in himself.

He thought of Andrew in the morning, spouting heatedly over his cruelties to the lovely and influential Miss Devou.  He had felt suddenly guilty for subjecting the poor woman to humiliation the way that he did, and Andrew was feeling suddenly proud for the effectiveness of his lecture.

"She's the daughter of Hastings," he said, "Not someone you can afford to pull your antics with Darien.  It won't do either of us good to fuck with her."

"I thought that was exactly what I was supposed to do," Darien remarked dryly.  He shook his head disgustedly, exactly the way he had done that morning, and he had laughed at what Andrew had let slip.  He warned his friend that he wasn't at the height of his game.  Otherwise, he would have been more careful not to spell out so clearly the reason why Devou had been invited in the first place.  Hastings was an important advertising firm in New York.  It would have been greatly advantageous—marrying company to company.  They'd feed off of one another like mutual insects.  It made his stomach crawl.

"Animals," he thought, "Every single one of them."  They made a ritual of swarming over each other in the race to come out on top.  The only real difference between the rich and the wild lied in their incentives.  He hardly thought a pack of dogs would tear each other apart for twenty grand.  Purity was a lost cause to all of them.  It was just another word of Webster's.

Suddenly, looking back over the street, Darien found the crumbling brick and chipping paint of the walls refreshing.  This was a place where men fought for _life_ on the streets instead of playing a twisted game of greed, a place where, if a man were to be an animal, he could live as an animal without tainting too much, the definition of the term.  He glanced again at the bent man in the alley, feeling more admiration than the sympathy he held before.  He was a noble example of survival—a real man.

"This is why she comes here," he decided, thinking of Serena, and his heart swelled with pride.  How smart his Serena was to escape the venal corruption of the rich, how righteous.  He could almost see her walking these streets with her graceful steps, beautiful and proud.

"She holds her head in the air," he thought, "but she doesn't stick up her nose."  She _was_ nobility.  If ever there was a woman worthy of a title, it was her.  Subjected to dirt and grime, she would just shine brighter—a diamond in the rough, and he was almost positive that he could love her.  He idolized her, and it warmed him wonderfully to know that—she could be right across the street.

In the hours he spent quarreling with Andrew that morning, his friend had given him only one minute of what he had wanted, and he held that information with reverence in between his thumb and index fingers.  It was an address—an address where he could find Serena, and it spelled out clearly, Friday Mornings, the middling coffee shop that stood out immediately just yards away from him.  It had an air of France and the charming corner shops they kept there, personifying their elegance in its gracefully extending rooftop.  The modestly chipping paint only added to its quality, aging it just so to perfection, and the thought rang wildly in his ears.  _Serena_ was perfection.  Any connection he could make to her excited his heart desperately, and suddenly, he found that he could see her in the clouds, smell her in the air.  She was everywhere but in his arms, and it left him unbearably dissatisfied—like the cravings he just couldn't identify or the thirst he couldn't quench.  He needed to see her, or he thought his skin would devour itself in its own heat.  The fevered proddings his heart was subjecting him to what seemed to be a piece of restlessness wedged into his mind, and it pressed him so that he almost wanted to resist it and test it—just to see if he could.

But he couldn't.  He felt knives at the soles of his feet, stabbing him perpetually for every second he didn't take a step towards her.  For a moment, he felt almost removed from his body as if he watched himself throw open his car door and rush towards his destination, rushing back only to realize he had forgotten to activate the locks.  It was like agony having to remove himself from his journey's path.  He felt his heart thumping wildly with each pace, and he was sure that she was calling to him and that her summoning was what carried the force to transfer his feet from one step to another, every one bringing him closer.  He was sure that she was there—right there in the imitation French bistro, and it made him think of taking her to see France if she hadn't seen it already.  Standing there, nearly at her door, he wanted to call out her name and profess his affections to this noble jungle.  He would fly her across the world, and they would taste their lives together.  He felt that strongly.

He whispered her name.  "Serena."  The simple utterance of it brought him to his knees, and he could almost feel her answer him back, whispering his name in response.  He marveled at this, at this simple intimacy that suddenly made him want to spend the rest of his life with one woman, one woman who wasn't even in his arms.

"But she will be," he thought resolutely.  She had to be.  

He reached for the antiqued knob of the door, a kind that may have been found in a home, and he turned it firmly, pushing in as his nerves escalated in his chest.  It opened smoothly but not all too quickly as if it were consciously revealing to him, the woman of his dreams.  He imagined its edges were bladed, slicing through the air like butter, but at the same time, he found it tested his patience.  He stepped through forcefully, his moment jarred by the hasty ringing of an entrance bell, sounding cheap to his ears.

"Welcome to Friday Mornings," chirped the redhead at the counter, "How may we help you?"  Darien studied her as if she had an extension to her head.  There was no one in the little coffee shop but the two of them—the customer and the coffee-maker.  He felt his heart plummet to find the place empty.  How could he have been wrong?  It didn't seem possible.  He was so sure she was here.

"Overactive imagination," he thought.  If only there were a cure.  He looked back at the redhead, not saying a thing and half-expecting her to know what he wanted.  Did she know Serena?

He approached her, "I'm looking for someone.  I've been told that she comes here often.  Her name is…" 

He stopped, annoyed. "Excuse me?"  He looked at her oddly, wondering who or what she was engaged with behind the counter.  She was whispering busily, making odd gestures, and neither one at him.

"Pardon me one second," she smiled at him sweetly before ducking out of his sight.

"You're supposed to be the waitress!," he heard her mutter harshly, "So get out there and do your job."

Darien raised his eyebrow questioningly.  What was going on?  He thought he was coming into a coffee shop, not a nut house.

"No!" he heard another voice whisper, "he's…"

The redhead cut it off, "He's nothing.  Come on!"

Darien almost chuckled, imagining the scene behind the counter, "Miss…Is everything alright?  Can I help _you_ with anything?"

The woman popped up, her red hair bouncing.  "Of course not," she said with false buoyancy, "We're here to serve."  Darien noticed the girl she had dragged up with her—from the depths of the counter, he supposed.  She was thin and pale.  Her frown made her entire face look tired, but he marveled at her hair.  Long and silvery blond.

"Let's start over," said the redhead, "Welcome to Friday Mornings.  My name is Lita, and this," she pointed to the blond, "This is my _waitress_, but you'll have to excuse her.  She's a bit shy."  She chuckled nervously, "Her name is Sere—"

Darien felt his eyes bulge even before she said her name.  His heart was beating furiously, and again, he fought his sweaty palms, calling on him to wipe them clean on the back of his slacks.  Could this be her?  He imagined himself shake his head while nodding it feverishly all at once.  It was a dizzying thought.  She couldn't be, but her hair—it was Serena's hair, he was sure of it.  He found himself staring, right when the redhead began her introduction, and she backed nervously away, trying to escape his eyes.

"Serena?" he whispered

She looked at him, her blue eyes finally meeting his.  They seemed darker—cold and unwelcoming.  He nearly stepped back.

"No," she said, "Sarah.  My name is Sarah."

Darien narrowed his eyes, almost trying to see through her.  There was something about this girl.  His heart was screaming something at its core, but he could decipher what it was in the midst of all the noise.  He looked back at the two women as if he would find an answer in one of them.  Lita was smiling at him with a plastic grin; Serah's frown had deepened.

"Do you want some coffee?" he heard one of them say.  He saw the words suspended in the air.  Which one had they come from?  He couldn't trace them back to their speaker.  

"Lost words.  Lost dogs," he thought to himself, "Lost souls."  He felt like he was fumbling in the dark.  Where was he?  It was all just one big maze, and he didn't have anyone to lead him out.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"Coffee?"  

It was Sarah, holding up a coffee pot.  He thought the weight of it might snap her wrist.  She was impossibly small—like Serena had been, delicate, but perhaps, without her grace.  He studied her more closely.  Her nose was lightly turned up; her eyes were now big and blue with a lost expression.  A frightened expression.  He imagined her face on a bunny rabbit.

"She's pretty," he thought, and she was.  Her features carried a certain air of beauty that tugged something inside of him, and he couldn't find what it was to make it stop.  He compared her to Serena, once again glad to find a connection.  If she was made over and dressed properly, he was sure the two could pass as sisters, but Serena was happy.  Sarah was not.  Serena was confident, elegant, graceful.  Sarah was not.  Maybe they _were_ sisters.  Darien felt a twinge of hope.  He imagined them as children, one beautiful, one a shadow of the other, and he felt his heart reach out to the sister in front of him, almost wondering what it would be like to fall in love with her instead.

"No," he said finally, "no coffee, but I was looking for someone.  I was wondering if you knew her."  His gaze lingered on Sarah, "Her name is Serena."  Her body stiffened visibly.  Darien noticed.

"She's not here today," she said quietly, hasty and rushed in her own softness.  Her eyes darted nervously to Lita.  They were hiding something.

"Maybe if you come back sometime later this week," Lita joined in.

Darien nodded solemnly, "Maybe."  He paused to study the two of them.  Transparent as they were, he knew they were lying, but why?  His mind concocted an evil, twisted plan.  Serena had been kidnapped for ransom, and she was lying bound and gagged in the back room, waiting for him to save her.  He felt his heart soar for an instant, but he almost laughed aloud at his own absurdness.  Neither of them could have done that.  His eyes passed over the frightened look of Sarah's face.  She didn't have it in her.

"I'll be back later," he said.  He reached into his pocket and grabbed a card from his wallet.  He looked at Sarah, staring her down.  He thought she would melt.  "This is my number."  His hand passed the card deliberately to her, "Have her call me when she comes."

She nodded just as he turned to leave, careful to keep her mouth shut.  He shot her one last look with one hand on the door, feeling suddenly like he was leaving something behind, but dismissed it when her hair fell limp over her face.  It was like an omen to him, another door closing, and he left, wondering when he'd ever see Serena again.

******

So what do you guys think?  Do you love it?  Hate it?  I'd love for you to give me some feedback, and I'm a review whore so keep em' comin! ^_^


	9. Ch 8 Secrets of the Past

The** standard odor of coffee and pastries struck the air, feeling foreign as it meshed with the overriding atmosphere of tension growing in the little shop.  There was nothing, not a smell or sound or inch that stood uncontaminated, not even the two women.  It swirled about their shining heads and blanketed them until neither could draw breath without taking it in, but only one understood that they would suffocate in it.  She watched Serena standing stationary over a spill at the coffee station, and she worried for the pieces of glass that had flown from the shattered pot but even more for her friend who had neither spoken nor moved since Darien Shields walked away.  It had been a curious situation when he came in.  Serena shot behind the counter, and Lita had been, obviously, out of the know.  It was fortunate to some extent that she was able to deduce who he was before any irrevocable mistakes had been made, but to call them mistakes even, was playing at hindsight.**

Lita furrowed her brow, trying once again to decode the cryptic actions of her friend.  Serena had declared just hours ago that Darien Shields was****the central target of her affections, but he had been here, flesh and bone.  He had come and gone, and she let him go knowingly and willingly.  There _was_ no explanation, none feasible that she could think up, and Serena was now long overdue to shine her light into the dark.  Enlightenment was, Lita thought, entirely necessary to the situation.  She despised walking blind.  Nothing was more ineffectual when it came to searching, to uncovering the truth, so she opened her mouth to start, deciding she would ask her friend for some clarification.

"Serena…" she began, holding her eyes on the silent head of her friend.  Her voice trailed away as if hesitant, concerned her curiosity had intruded without welcome.  She waited for a response.  She waited, but Serena didn't move.  "Do you want to talk about this?"

            The blond shook her head, purposefully chewing her lip.  She reached forward mechanically to brush back the hair that had fallen to obscure her vision.  The ends were swimming flowingly in a pool of pungent coffee.  "No," she murmured.  She brought herself out of the stoop that her back had settled in and smiled gently, unconvincingly, "There's nothing to talk about."  She ended it in a question, contesting herself openly.

            "Why didn't you tell him who you were?" Lita asked.

            Serena lifted her eyebrows.  "Why didn't _you?"_

            "Don't turn this around on me Serena."

She shook her head, shrugging in an abrupt change of mood.  "It's really no big deal Lita.  I mean: I just wasn't ready to face him today."  She shrugged again, pushing away the gracelessness of her transition.  Her voice had poorly placed her nonchalance, and instead, it put her on edge.  She added, "Just drop it," and smiled. The muscles of her mouth formed their movements with a touch of ferocity, a natural subtlety.

Lita shut her mouth and nodded.  The point was duly taken.  Serena wasn't going to talk.

"All right," she sighed, defeated.  "Maybe next time then."

Serena reinforced her.  "Yeah," she said, "Maybe next time," but she stopped afterwards, not moving and hardly breathing.  Her pause was pregnant with all the things she couldn't say.  She wanted to speak.  She was almost gagging on the words that were pressing for release from her confines, but the part of her-her locker set store for acceptance, wouldn't accept and the obstinate gates of her mouth wouldn't open.

She went back to her work, her hair falling into her face once again.  Her mind tried to zero** in on the simplicity of the task, moving the cleaning rag in neat circles to soak up the heady liquid, but she found a deal of trouble in doing that even.  Her thoughts wandered taking her places she didn't want to be.  Everything held the potential to transform into an image or sense that she could trace back to Darien—one way or another.  It would have been easier to stray away from him, easier without Lita and the coffee shop.  She shot a fleeting look towards the exit where he had left.  The air outside, she imagined, would be fresh and free of the tension that polluted her lungs, and what she would give for a taste of it.  One taste, one breath that she wouldn't have to count, a breath she wouldn't have to scrutinize and wonder-_did he taste this too?_**

"It's for the best," she thought.  Weak words of reassurance.  Her wall of optimism was crumbling with its poor construction.  She couldn't find anything overwhelmingly favorable in her situation.  She had no control, no guarantees.  It was another wave she would have to ride out.  She would be, to watching eyes, perfectly content to dismiss him as a nightly joyride as he would do as well…eventually.  That was what it meant to be strong, not to show the weaknesses that flourished within, but Lita, it seemed, had little clue to Serena's strength.  The redhead had flitted from one foot to another, pacing restlessly, ill contented to leave things as they were.

She settled in a chair, frowning and calculating the value of breaching the topic again.  Her gaze held steadily on Serena who worked diligently with her soiled rags grinding down the countertop with concentrated circles neither making it more or less clean, and decided.  The silence threatened her sanity.

"What if there is no next time though?" Lita finally asked, shrinking into her seat cushion, "How do you know that he'll come back?  What if he does come back and you keep going with this lie.  What then?"

The blond straightened, her circles finding an end.  "I guess I really don't know," She tried to smile, "Do I?"

"But you're in love with him," Lita murmured concernedly.  Serena shook her head, and Lita responded similarly, silently counteracting her denial.  Her friend was in love with Darien Shields; she knew it.  She had heard it from her very own mouth-the words of a woman in love.  The relentlessness of love could not be easily forgotten.  She knew its potency.  Serena's love, it was a thing of consequence, and yet, she knew that if the case was as she thought-then her friend would be falling apart, and there would be nothing for her to do.

So she expected Serena to turn to her then.  Lita imagined the silvery blond ends of her hair flying as she would whirl around sobbing onto her shoulder.  She waited, but Serena didn't budge.  It was then that she took a turn on her path of reason.  She braced herself for vehement denials of any feelings of love whatsoever on the part of her friend.  The answer then, would be easy.  She would tell her not to shut out her true feelings, and that everything would be ok.  Everything happened for a reason, and what didn't kill her only made her stronger.  

She'd spout motivational hypocrisy that would make even the most steadfast idealist proud, and at night, she would sleep easy because her friend would eventually heal, nourished by her worlds of comfort.

She waited—but nothing came.  The blond ends didn't spin.  Her lips didn't part.  Lita doubted if she had even breathed at all.

"Serena?" she whispered.

Serena shook her head.  "There's nothing to talk about Lita," she paused, "I think I need to go home."  Her voice rang cheerfully empty to Lita's ears, but she hadn't missed the savage tone of her words.  She was humming with her efforts to control herself, humming so that neither of them could have sat comfortably.  The air had been contaminated so that there was only breath for one.

Lita eyed a large piece of glass on the ground.  The store needed sweeping.  "Sure," she sighed, looking Serena in the eye, "We'll talk later alright?" and she nodded, almost to herself.  "Take care of you."

Serena gestured her consent as she loosened the strings of her apron. "Thanks Lita."  She said it as she hit the door, almost afraid that if she had stopped anywhere before, she would never make it out.  Lita flashed her a bright smile—last minute improvisation, but Serena had left the building without looking back, feeling the familiar pangs of guilt.  She might have explained, just a little, might have put Lita at ease with just a few words and spoken to her.  After all, she had tried so hard to help and with such good intentions.

"But there's nothing she can do for me," she rationalized.  She didn't need words of comfort now nor did she need a simple fair-weathered friend.  She needed—assistance, help from the only person who could give it.

She went to a payphone and called Andrew.

"Hello?"

A woman's voice received her on the other end of the line—his secretary.  Serena waited, almost expecting to hear Andrew relieve her of this woman whose syrupy voice, no matter how sticky sweet, sounded condescending to no end.  She lowered her voice carefully when the secretary greeted her again, trying to sound more adult—someone to be taken seriously, and she hoped that she didn't sound nearly as transparent as she felt.

The syrup dripped.  She didn't realize a thing.  "Do you have an appointment to see Mr. King?"

            Serena tensed at those words, pulling the phone cord nervously through her fingers.  She _didn't_ have an appointment; she hadn't even thought that she would have to make one.

            "N-no," she stammered, feeling disgustingly unprepared, "But I have to see Andrew tonight.  Is he busy?"  She blushed, suddenly aware of how childish she sounded.

            "You've caught him at the right time," the secretary tapped sweetly, "Our office hours are until eight P.M."

Serena grimaced in spite of her luck.  She could see her plastic smile through the phone all the while she made arrangements to see Andrew at six, and after provision had been made, she hailed a taxicab right away.  Her anxious mind cringed at the thought of any wasted time.  Though, she had hardly any idea as to what she was rushing off to.  For all she knew, Darien and Andrew could both be sitting in his office anticipating her arrival-ready to announce their cruel joke.  By the end, she had whittled away a good half of her transit rehearsing possible conversations in her mind until she settled on the one that seemed most favorable to her, but that was a fairy tale at best.  Darien, of course, wasn't being detained by an evil villain.  He hadn't gone to the coffee house that morning to see her one last time, and he wouldn't defy all odds in the name of their love, which may very well have existed only in her head.  None of that would happen.  Serena knew that, and whatever trace of romantic notions remained in her mind was dashed away the minute she set foot into Sheiki's offices.

 Its illusion hit her hard and fast.  Cleanly pressed workers buzzed busily over each floor that rose grandly above the last, creating a simple industrial majesty that left her stunned in her place.  Everything seemed alive and bustling and droning-all at the same time.  Once her initial reaction had worn off, the place struck her suddenly as monotonous.  The crowds of crisp, black suits moved with purpose from one place to the next.  Everyone knew what they were doing.  Everyone fit into the norm-everyone but her.  Serena glanced at her window reflection, which brought painful attention to the manner that she was dressed.  Her torn jeans and simple sweater stood out agonizingly from the clean lines around her, and as she walked on, she fervently wished that she had given more thought to her appearance before stepping into the taxicab.  Not a single person spoke to her, and several who walked by averted their eyes as if she displayed some alarming deformity.  Some of the bolder ones shot her odd glances from the corners of their eyes either in annoyance or curiosity, but all the same, their carefully measured expressions told her with little room for interpretation-just how little she belonged.

Feeling monstrous, Serena boarded the elevator, squeezing her way to the back where she could shrink invisibly into the corners.  Few people noticed except to wrinkle their noses at her pungent coffee perfume, but she didn't deem that a problem.  She could wrinkle her own nose right alone with them.

It wasn't until she reached Andrew's syrupy secretary on the top level that Serena was made to feel truly uncomfortable.  The woman wore horn-rimmed glasses on cheek bones that sat high and sharp on her face, giving her the stern, almost ridiculous look of how one might imagine a school teacher.  Her gaze fixed disapprovingly down the end of her upturned nose as Serena approached as if she were some juvenile miscreant.

"I'm here to see Mr. King," Serena said, facing the mouth of the lion.  She stood a little taller and made a show of fluffing up her flattened feathers.  "I made an appointment with you earlier."  She paused, glancing down at her watch, which read six.  She tapped it twice, hoping it hadn't stopped.  "I think I'm right on time."  She flashed a friendly smile, hoping the woman would respond to her cordiality, but she didn't.  Her big eyes narrowed to serpentine slits behind her glasses, making it clear that she held no qualms against showering Serena with all her disdain.

"Mr. King is a busy man," she said with a pretense of politeness, "He won't be able to meet with you."  She grinned crookedly, despicably.  "You should leave," and with that, she looked away, pointing her nose into the air as if to signal to end of her conversation.

"I made an appointment with him at six," Serena said unflinchingly, sounding braver than she felt.  "You told me it would be fine."

The secretary stared, surprised at her pluck.  "You'll find the exit to your right," she said gratingly, fighting to keep her own agitation within its confines.  Decorum prohibited her from showing this girl out herself, but there was an urge.  She was poorly mannered, poorly dressed, and without a question, poorly brought up.  The secretary pitied herself for having to deal with people like her, and still! She showed no signs of leaving!

She tightened her thin red lips.  "To your right," she repeated slowly** and with more force, pointing this time as if she were directing a small child, "I can have someone show you out if you wish."**

Serena snapped.  "I know where the exit is.  Thank you."  She felt her blood boil at being treated like an invalid.  Who did this woman think she was?  She leaned in on the desk, preparing to make herself heard, but the secretary flinched back as if she had been burned.

"You stay away from me!" she warned, "or I'll call security."

Serena laughed at her easy submission, her eyes flashing lividly.  She felt an anger building inside of her, eating away within and pounding at her chest in celebration.  Empowering, she thought.  It empowered her.  She stood her ground and planted her feet firmly, knowing that just a year ago, she would have run, and her legs would have carried her far from the building by now, but her gaze held steadily on her adversary, glaring as ferociously as she dared.  She was going to build up her wall until her bricks were gone.

"Andrew is a personal friend of mine," she said, stunned at her own audacity.  "Now either you do your job and tell him that I'm here to see him, or I'll do it for you."  She studied the secretary whose pallid complexion was growing redder by the minute.  Her wide eyes were glowering steadily on Serena, filled to the brim with rage.  Decorum was out the window. 

She stood rapidly, almost pushing Serena back and off her balance.  Her mind was reeling with absolutely nothing to say, but the anger made her skin itch and her fingertips burn.  Taking her options into stock, the secretary flexed her hands, wondering openly how much this girl was worth and how much it would cost her…if she were to oblige the palm of her eager hand.  

Her point was duly noted by Serena who gave a slight distance between her and the desk.  The secretaries eyes shone dangerously with the sharp light of rage, and Serena returned her stare with apprehension.  Neither woman spoke.  It was a warring game of glares and estrogen, and to any spectator looking on, they sent out a widespread sign of caution-one that Andrew took great notice of. 

 He had been standing and watching the two since the time it seemed their conversation had turned south, and, with a great deal of patience, he waited for the right time to intervene.

"Hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn," he reminded himself.  He looked over both their positions, resolving to squelch the problem before it escalated any further.

He cleared his throat.  

"Ladies," he nodded, keeping his cool, "There's not a problem here is there?"  Andrew casually slipped his hands into his pockets, his own signal of neutrality, as the two snapped their heads at his direction in surprise.  He knew, or at least assumed, that they were both harmless, but he took care to tread with a sensitive step.

"Janet," he said, addressing the secretary jauntily, "Is Serena here to see me?"

"Yes," she smiled, her disposition suddenly pleasant.  Serena noted the sudden turn-around, almost impressed with the transition.  "I told her you weren't in, but she was insolent.  She insisted on seeing you."  Her grin never fled her face, and the syrup flowed again-more notably poisoned than before.  A jolt of fury shot between the two.

Andrew smiled amicably, completely unaware.  "Well here I am and free of any pressing engagements."  He motioned to Serena with one hand, and waved goodbye to secretary Janet with the other, killing two birds with one stone.

"A job well done," he thought happily.  With his fingers splayed on the small of her back, he led Serena to his office where she followed without a word until the powerful doors were shut.

"Your secretary's a real bitch," she muttered unapologetically.

Andrew chuckled sympathetically, cocking his head to the side, "She has her moments."

"Then hire another one," Serena said.

He laughed.  "If only things were so simple!  But I wouldn't.  She's proficient and a friend of the family.**  I guess that's what counts." **

Serena nodded absentmindedly in agreement and ran a finger over the smooth leather of his chair, almost as if to make sure it was there.  Everything seemed to blend into its own silhouette, and the darkness made her uneasy. 

            She asked if there was a light they could turn on, and Andrew mechanically rotated the switch of his desk lamp, enhancing the shadows.  Serena shuddered involuntarily.

            "Darien went looking for you this morning," he said suddenly, and it came out sounding like instrumental words-out of place-as if he had been searching for the right time to let them go and it never quite came.  He almost apologized, but for what?  His bad timing?  He felt her body tense, even from afar, but it was a topic that needed to be broached.

            "I know," she muttered, avoiding his gaze as she sank into his chair.

            "And…?" He dug deeper, hoping she would confess to more than what he had heard from Darien.

            "And nothing," she said, feeling like a small child being interrogated for a crime.  "I wasn't there.  He didn't find me."  She shook her head, emphasizing her lie.

            Andrew sighed.  "You don't need to lie to me Serena."

            She froze and smiled mechanically without glancing in his direction.  "But I'm not lying."  

How did he know?  Her mind raced frantically.  Had Darien figured it out, or had he just deduced from the clues…Were the both of them in on her secret?  But how?  Lita could have taken on someone new.  There were hundreds of possibilities and no evidence that could pinpoint her.  

            He arched his eyebrows expectantly as her eye finally met his.  "Why didn't you tell him who you were Serena?"

            She opened her mouth, partially in defense and partially in shock, but nothing surfaced.  This was far from what she had rehearsed in the cab.  Did he have her trapped, or was he bluffing?  Serena looked him directly in the eye, searching for a hint or two, waiting for anything to give way so she could jump from her chair and call his bluff.  She didn't find a thing.

            "I would have," she sighed, sounding thoroughly unconvincing, "I would have if I was there, but I wasn't."

            "Serena, you and I both know…"

            She laughed abruptly, throwing her hands in the air to signal surrender.  "You and I both know _what_?  That Darien came looking for me and I shot off my lying mouth and told him I was someone else?  Suddenly I'm the bad guy."

            "Serena," Andrew sighed, "Don't do this.  I just want to know what happened."

            Serena looked down, focusing on her thumbs before closing her eyes, and she could still imagine the room through her lids.  She had never been good at shutting out the world.  It always came knocking.

            "How did you know?"

"Lita came to see me," he said, "She was here just before you-the reason for my delay.  Neither of you knew the other was coming…"

"and she was surprised," he added, "when she heard I was late for my meeting with you."

Serena's mouth rounded, forming a soft 'oh' as she felt her body fill to the brim with guilt.  She sighed sheepishly, "Did she say anything?"

"She rushed off in a hurry—the store was unattended."

Serena felt another fresh wave of remorse pass over her.  Lita hated to leave the store alone.

"What about…Darien?" she asked haltingly.

"What about Darien?" Andrew repeated.

She pushed the hair off her forehead and looked him in the eye with earnestness.  "Did you tell him?" 

He shook his head, putting a hand on her shoulder.  "Not yet Serena, but I will if you don't.  He deserves to know."

Serena nodded, "I know."

Andrew continued.  "Darien's a bed 'em and leave 'em kind of guy."

She winced at his use of words but nodded, knowing very well where he was trying to take the conversation.

 "So am I supposed to be jumping for joy that Darien didn't screw me and throw me out the next morning.  Does that make me something special?  

"I don't understand Andrew…He came looking for me, and he found…_me_, but he didn't know it.  I was standing right in front of him, and I'll allow that he gave me a fair share of odd looks and he seemed puzzled enough, but—"  She shook her head sadly, "He should have recognized me Andrew…so tell me—whose injustice is it now?  I lied…but he _still threw me out."_

            "He does care about you though, and you-"

            "Forget about me," she said, waving her hand as if she were trying to erase herself.** "I don't count.  Whatever I said, whatever I felt, it was just the remnants of one good night, and him—he cares for whoever he saw then.  He doesn't even know me!"  Serena paused, fighting to stave off the tears that stung her eyes, fighting to think them back into nonexistence.  It wasn't going to be as easy to forget as she thought it would be.**

            "If he walked in here right now, and he saw me with you.  Do you think he'd make the connection?  He'd look at me and think, 'There's Sarah, the waitress from the coffee shop,' or 'There's Sarah, the sad, frumpy girl I met this morning.'"

"You don't know that," Andrew interrupted, "It's your injustice if you're going to underestimate him like this.  Darien's a sharp guy, and this morning was a momentary lapse of judgment.  Are you willing to throw all this away—to condemn him for ten minutes of idiocy?"

"Not me," she whispered, her voice quavering with bitterness.  "I think he made up his mind the minute he saw me this morning.  Look at me Andrew.  Would you have made the same mistake?"

He shook his head.  "I'm different.  You can't equate me with Darien.  I knew you before last night, but you can't honestly tell me that there wasn't a difference in the way you looked.  I saw it, and you saw it, but Darien—he didn't know."

"That's no excuse."

"Why not?" he demanded,  "Why are you so bent on making this an impossible situation when it doesn't have to be.  Give him a goddamn chance Serena!"

She paused, breaking the constancy of her responses.

"I don't…want to be a disappointment," she said softly.

"You won't…You wouldn't.  How could you possibly be a disappointment?"  

She closed her eyes, reliving the morning.  "You and I—we don't walk together.  You know?  It's like two puzzle pieces that don't seem like they would fit.  I'm glad…really glad that they do, but still…I don't _belong_ with a man like Darien."

"Who's to say that?" he said.

"Darien—he recognized me at first.  I heard him say my name, not like he was asking me where _Serena was, but he was calling me…and I told him 'no, my name is Sarah.'" She shook her head, "You can't know unless you saw the look in his eyes.  When I told him, something that was there just—went away," she stopped, adjusting to the growing lump in her throat.  "It was like he was suddenly relieved of this huge amount of tension, and I thought: he doesn't want someone like me.  If he did happen to fall in love with someone, it wasn't who you're looking at now.  You know?  Last night was just…this grand illusion, like a dream, and it still is—except I'm not in it anymore…"_

"What are you so afraid of Serena?  Just tell him the truth.  What's the worst that could happen?  I know—you're afraid that he won't take you as you are, but I know him."  He tried to laugh.  "He'll think you're his Cinderella story come true.  Why not take the chance?"

Serena swallowed, weighing the options, but Andrew was an optimist.  How could Darien love her?  She looked at herself, looked at her scuffed shoes.  She was nothing, and he deserved better than her.  What could she give him other than some grand illusion?  And even then, her veil was gone by now.

She shut her eyes, feeling the cold grip of rejection take hold of her body, and goose bumps raised themselves on her arms, standing her hair on end.  He was gone, even if she climbed back into that dress and did herself back up.  She wouldn't live the lie.

"But what if I can't live the truth?" she murmured.  The words were trapped low in her throat, and she knew instinctively that someone had said them ahead of her, that she had heard them before.  A wave of familiarity washed gratingly over her body, forcing its taste on her—salty sour at the back of her mouth.  

Her mind flashed: 

_He looked at her with such disgust that she backed away, frightened.  She heard him call her a liar, a cheat, a bitch, a whore.  She winced every time, closing her eyes and biting her lip to keep from crying out, and then he struck her once.  Hard.  And again.  She fell to the ground, weeping._

Serena fell back suddenly out of her reverie as if the jolt had hit her physically.  She felt detached from her body.  It was almost like watching herself cry and feeling her crumpled body shake from the outside, and then all at once, Andrew's arms were around her, pushing her back in.

"Serena?" she heard him say, "What Serena?  What's the matter?"  His arms held her body in their strong grip, but still, they were unable to stop her weeping and trembling.  What had happened?  This was a turn of tides he hadn't expected, and the abruptness of her fit left him frightened.  Had he said something?  He had just been waiting, waiting for her to speak, but she hadn't let out a word.  The look of her eyes had grown more despondent by the second, but he couldn't have known, couldn't have prepared for her outbreak.

"I can't," she sobbed.  She shook her head vigorously in between erratically timed gulps of air, and she brought her knees to her chest as Andrew released her, rocking gently back and forth.  "You don't understand Andrew.  I can't tell him anything.  He'll hate me."  She sheltered her head in her knees, her words becoming muffled.  

Andrew stood back, not understanding and not saying a word.  He watched her repeat herself over and over with his confused eyes.  With all the urgency of love, he never imagined she would break like this.  Her tiny frame shook so violently with the force of her sobs that he feared she would be torn apart.  "Serena—" he started, placing a tentative hand on her quivering shoulder, "It'll be alright."

"No!" she exploded.  Her body shot from the chair forcefully, almost colliding into his office desk.  "It won't be _alright."  Her voice shook with every syllable, "__You didn't see her face, and she didn't look at __you when she got up on that chair."  Serena stood on the chair herself, her visage glistening with tears.  Her eyes shone almost madly.  Andrew froze, afraid of what she might do, but she wasn't looking at him.  She had forgotten about him.  _

Her stare fixed intensely on the ceiling, and the hanging lights became a noose.  She breathed, and her lungs were filled with the stale air of garages.  The room around her was transformed, and she was four years old again, feeling too much for a girl of five years to feel.

"I asked her not to go," she wept, "but she was crying, and she told me that she would die if she stayed," her eyes shut, "I didn't want her to die, but I didn't think—" A choked sob forced itself from her throat, leading a chain that Andrew thought would never end.  She opened her eyes and sank into the chair.  She rolled her head back and nodded to the erratic rising and falling of her chest.

Andrew watched fearfully, realizing that they were far past Darien by now.

"I thought he loved her," Serena said, her voice finally sobering.  Tears fell silently from her eyes now with the exception of her occasional hiccoughs, poorly timed efforts to control her beasts, "and she was so happy all night."  

"Who?" Andrew asked urgently.

Her eyes fell on his, hauntingly sad, and her hands, which had been tightly tangled in her hair, dropped limply into her lap, defeated.  "My mother," she whispered.  How long had it been since she remembered? Since she broached the topic without veering sharply away?  It wasn't something that kept her up at nights.  It wasn't something she cried about, and to anyone who asked, her mother had died of natural causes.  Diseases varied from time to time.  Sometimes, she was sick with cancer.  Other times, tuberculosis.  Her death was tragic and beautiful perhaps even heroic…Hadn't she once died saving a child from a burning building?

"What happened?" Andrew pressed.  He kept his voice soft, afraid anything louder would rupture her period of calm.

"My mother died," she said succinctly, surprising Andrew with her composure, "and I was put into foster care."  

"About every two months," came her bitter voice, "I was put into foster care.  They all seemed to know something that I didn't, and after a month or so, I would be back at the orphanage."  She nodded.  "I snuck into the office once to read my file, and they all said the same thing: Serena has a burden that we're not prepared to handle, but we enjoyed having her."  She paused, her mouth set grimly in a thin line. 

"I was seven," she said, "and being passed around like some hot lump of coal, and it finally got to the point where I stopped caring because routine is routine and mindlessness is comforting.  You know?  It was so confusing, like I was lost in this huge labyrinth of tunnels and doors, and every time I was sent away from a foster home, it was like I had gone through the _wrong _door.  I was right back where I started.  I spent _nine years_ going through wrong doors and looking for the end of those tunnels until finally—I was content enough just as I was.  Because after a while…foster families stopped knocking, and I was the oldest girl at the orphanage at sixteen.  I didn't have to talk to anybody, and nobody talked to me.  It was like the hard questions just stopped coming, and I could forget about it all…but then my aunt found me and adopted me because I was her…_obligation_."  She spat out her last word.  It tasted sour on her tongue.

"Why did it take her so long to find you?" Andrew asked.

"Her husband was in the air force.  They hardly stood still for more than a month at a time.  It wasn't until he retired that she actually started looking," she shook her head, "I almost wish she hadn't…because…I never really—_understood_ what happened that night, or even, who my mother _really_ was.  I  mean.  I remembered the men and the late nights and the alcohol, but I never pieced it together, you know?  It wasn't until Aunt Celine told me—" She paused to chuckle dryly, or perhaps, just to gather her thoughts.  Her eyelids closed over the dim light, sliding smoothly, consciously.  She was preparing him, maybe even preparing herself…

 "My mother was an escort Andrew," she spat, bitterly.  She pursed her lips almost as if she were trying to contain herself—to keep from expressing the disgust that burst like a berry in her mouth.  She was filled with it.

 "My mother…was a glorified prostitute who did the unthinkable.  She fell in love with a man.  His name was Dylan, and he had no clue, the poor bastard.  So she played pretend, keeping up her practice because he worked the night shift at the corner store, and couldn't be with her even if he wanted to, but then, she slipped up with one of her _clients.  I don't know how, but she did, and she told Dylan that I was _his _kid.  _

"He was so in love that he didn't even question her.  He couldn't see the web of lies she was spinning."  Serena clenched her hands, feeling her anger invade her veins, heating her blood every inch that it flowed.  He could have been smarter.  Her mother could have been better, braver, and none of it would have happened, but it did.  She was here after all…because they had been so stupid.

"That man was walking blind for four damn years until my mom finally decided to come clean," she said behind gritted teeth.  "Dylan was like my dad.  I thought he was for the longest time, and I just couldn't understand why…he'd just walk away like that."  She felt her voice break, swallowing deeply.  She was digging up old skeletons, none of which she wished to be reacquainted with.  Another layer of the onion was being peeled away.  She could feel it on her skin.

"He took us out to the fair that had just come to town for my fifth birthday, and at dinner—over corn dogs and soda, he brought out this tiny little ring from his pocket.  He didn't show it to us right away, but we kept pushing him until finally he took out his box, and my mom—she grabbed me so hard that it hurt.  She was so happy.  She kept showing me the ring he put on her finger, and I compared it to my little cheap plastic one, saying that mine was bigger."  

"Everyone laughed, and she didn't even reprimand me like I thought she would.  She just—smiled and kissed me, and then, she kissed Dylan."  Serena sighed heavily.  "I remember thinking that her ring was probably the most powerful thing in the universe because it just made her _so_ happy…I'd never seen her so happy.  I could tell, even after I went inside.  Watching from the window, there was this glow around her, and I thought that it had to be the ring making her glow like that…"

"And I didn't know," she whispered, her face blanching, "when she started crying, and he started yelling.  I didn't know what was going on, but she stopped glowing…I thought she had taken her ring off, and it was just so confusing to me because I couldn't understand why.  I _just couldn't understand why he was so angry, but he hit her once…and again, until she fell.  I was so scared with my face pressed up against the window…watching."_

"She was on her knees begging, and I didn't know why.  Dylan was walking away, and I didn't know why.  And I didn't know why he pushed her when she tried to follow.  I didn't know why she went to the garage, and…I don't know why I went out there with her."

"I remember that…I kept asking why she wasn't smiling anymore…why she wasn't happy about her ring…" Serena sniffed heavily, not pausing even to wipe her tears away.  "I kept asking her…even while she was tying the ropes and setting up her chair.  I mean…my mind just couldn't figure out what was going on.  I still thought it was about the ring.  I didn't know…"

She shook her head, "I was telling her to just put her ring back on, but she didn't even look at me, not until she climbed up there, and her eyes-they were shining so brightly.  She stared at me so hard with her eyes, so hard and so deep that I think I knew then…that nothing would ever be the same.  She looked at me, and she said that…the lies hadn't been enough, and the truth wasn't enough, and that…she didn't have anything else.  Nothing else she could give."

"I almost didn't recognize her.  You know; I almost forgot who she was because she sounded so different, and she _felt_ like a stranger…What can you do?  When you don't know your own mother?  I wanted her to stop looking at me with her eyes glowing like that.  They scared me so much, and when she wouldn't stop-I ran out to find Dylan.  I called for him, and I called, and I called because something was so…wrong."  She sobbed, remembering.  Her voice shook with every word.  

"I went back when he didn't come, and she was still there in the garage.  Dylan was gone, but she was still there except her chair was knocked over, but she was still up there, just hanging and swinging…I couldn't move because I _still couldn't really understand what was happening.  The lights went out in the garage, but I didn't move.  I could hear her swaying in the dark, the stress on the ropes, but…I couldn't see anything-anything but her eyes shining…just like two little beetles in the dark…but I still didn't know…" she cried, "She just wouldn't come down, no matter how hard I pulled at her feet.  Not even when I righted the chair and climbed up beside her…she just wouldn't…"  _

Serena's voice broke into a final, fractured sob, concluding with a quivering breath, and so her skeletons were out, dragging her back to her dungeons.

She looked at Andrew whose face had paled, and he turned his constant eye away from hers as soon as they met, a simple deviation to avoid the detection of anything that might be deemed inappropriate.  How does one respond to these stories?  He didn't know, and it frightened him to even look at her.  He was afraid his eyes would offend.  His nose would offend.  His tears would offend.  Misfortune was of a nature that drew in everything it could touch.  It was something they both understood.  Serena sat, poignantly silent, noting the dew that shone fresh at the lip of his eye and was reminded of her own tears, falling wild in her stillness.  She imagined the paths they carved into her cheeks.  They were trails well traveled, truly traversed for the first time during her mother's last.  It was such tragedy.  Such irony.  Such beauty.  She wanted to laugh.  She wanted to sit and feel her blood run heavy in her veins as if she'd never feel it again, and her body almost felt itself hanging.  Her hands and feet weighted down.  They seemed to fall and swing—like she used to imagine they would if she had been up there…hanging with her mother, and she might as well have been—while her mouth filled with the acrid taste of stale air and car exhaust.  She was spinning her own web of lies, playing another game of deceit, and what if—what if she lost her footing and couldn't find her way back out?  The apple never fell far from the tree, and she was tying her noose already.

She let her head roll back and closed her eyes, carefully following the pattern that was left for her to trace.  

"I'm in the same place," she whispered, "Don't you see…everything I'm doing, everything she did.  It's all happening again…"

And she had been so happy…****


End file.
